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OF  CALIF.  LWRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


CALMIRE 


FOURTH        EDITION        REVISED 


Neto  Yorfe 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 
1893 


COPYRIGHT,   1892, 

BY 
MACMILLAN  &  CO. 


First  Edition  published  May  1892  ;  Second  (with  considerable 
alterations'),  August  1892;  Third,  in  2  vols.  for  England  {with 
slight  modifications],  October  1892  ;  Fourth,  2  vols.  in  one  (with 
tome  restatements  and  minor  alterations),  January  1893. 


PRINTED    BY    ROBERT    DRUMMOND,    NEW    YORK. 


NOTE    TO   THE    FOURTH    EDITION. 

SHOULD  this  fall  under  the  eye  of  any  one  who 
has  been  interested  in  the  discussions  in  a  previous 
edition,  he  may  care  to  have  his  attention  called  to 
some  re-statements  in  Part  II,  on  pp.  266  and  295. 
The  separate  paging  of  the  parts,  which  may  at 
first  puzzle  such  a  reader,  is  due  to  alterations  for 
the  third  edition,  in  two  volumes,  which  went  to 
England. 

There  are  some  minor  modifications  hardly 
worth  specifying,  but  perhaps  worth  alluding  to 
for  bibliographical  reasons. 


21 26274 


CONTENTS. 

PART  I. 


I.  A  Real  Ghost 3 

II.  A  Youth  of  the  Period, 14 

III.  A  Girl  not  of  the  Period, 19 

IV.  A  Man  of  Several  Periods, 24 

V.  The  First  Bout 28 

VI.  An  Afternoon  Drive, 32 

VII.  A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path 40 

VIII.  The  Unjust  and  the  Just, 53 

IX.   The  Band  begins  to  Play 68 

X.  Sympathy? 77 

XI.  The  New  Genesis 84 

XII.  Wilful  Woman, 100 

XIII.   New  Foreshadowings  from  Old  Questions,    .     .   no 

XIV.  The  Granzines, 124 

XV.  Another  Bout 139 

XVI.  A  Tough  Subject  though  not  a  New  One,     .     .  144 
XVII.  Mr.  Courtenay  Experiences   some    Sentiments 

and  a  Visit, 153 

XVIII.   Faith  and  Fact, 160 

XIX.  Courtenay  and  his  Sister, 176 

XX.  The  All-including, 183 

v 


vi  Contents. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI.  At  a  Tennis  Match, 201 

XXII.  Muriel  takes  a  Short  Innings, 216 

XXIII.  Aids  to  Matrimony, 230 

XXIV.  Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy,  ....  244 
XXV.  A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry 258 

XXVI.  In  the  Same  Boat 267 

XXVII.  Dependence, 287 

XXVIII.   Absence  Omits  to  Conquer, 302 

XXIX.  In  Another  Boat 305 

XXX.  Going  Wooing, 316 

XXXI.   Banished, 329 

XXXII.   "  Du  sollst  entbehren," 335 

XXXIII.  A  Little  Diplomacy, 340 

XXXIV.  The  Encounter, 345 

XXXV.  Another  Encounter 354 

XXXVI.  A  Soulless  Universe, 360 

XXXVII.   Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire,  ....  365 


PART  II. 


XXXVIII.   Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire,    .     ...  3 

XXXIX.  Revelation 12 

XL.  The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural,       .     ...    .     .  25 

XLI.  An  Outside  Argument, ••     •     •  35 

XLII.  The  Essential  Religion, 42 

XLIII.  Mary's  Story, 62 

XLIV.  Courtenay's  Faith, "...  74 

XLV.  The  Moral  Order 84 

XLVI.  Misery  makes  Strange  Bedfellows,       .     .     .     .  100 

XLVII.  The  Unknown  God, no 


Contents.  vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XLVIII.  God  and  Man 126 

XLIX.   More  Correspondence, 134 

L.  Cain 143 

LI.  Tantalus, 152 

LII.  Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town 157 

LIII.  Where  Man  may  Go, 168 

LIV.   Man's  Range  Enough  for  Man,        183 

LV.  Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case, 194 

LVI.   Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters, 204 

LVII.   Extracts  arranged  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent,   216 

LVI II.   De  Profundis, 234 

LIX.   Facing  It, 252 

LX.   Where  All  Roads  Meet, 263 

LXI.   Noblesse  Oblige, 2g, 

LXII.  A  Hunter's  Find, 299 

LXIII.  The  Finder's  Hunt 308 

LXIV.  The  Beginning, 317 


PART   I 

CHAOS 


CALMIRE 


CHAPTER    I. 

A      REAL      GHOST. 

"THIS  is  outrageous  !  She  has  rung  four  times 
already  !"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  The  door  is  open,"  answered  her  mother  beside 
her  in  the  carriage.  "  Send  the  coachman  in." 

"  No  !  He  had  better  stay  with  his  horses.  I'll 
go  and  see  what  it  means  myself.  Let  me  out, 
please." 

"  Let  Marie  go  in." 

"  No;  I'll  go  myself." 

And  she  got  out.  It  was  one  Summer  evening 
not  far  from  1880,  when  the  two  ladies  and  their 
maid  reached  Fleuvemont.  Till  within  a  few 
weeks,  the  house  had  been  closed  for  two  years — 
since  Mr.  Calmire  had  gone  abroad  immediately 
after  his  wife's  death.  Now  he  was  back  in  New 
York,  where  he  had  found  his  cousin  (by  mar- 
riage) and  life-long  friend,  Mrs.  Hugh  Wahring, 
in  town  later  than  her  wont,  and  in  a  predicament. 
She  had  not  settled  for  Nina  and  herself  that 
most  harassing  of  standard  questions,  where  to 

3 


4  A  Real  Ghost. 

spend  the  Summer.  She  had  supposed  it  settled, 
and  satisfactorily,  a  month  before,  when  Mr.  Wahr- 
ing  had  seen  them  comfortably  fixed  in  their 
house  at  Newport.  All  of  them  were  vastly  pleased 
with  the  new  addition  to  it,  and  he  had  started  off 
to  visit  his  firm's  office  in  China,  to  determine  the 
question  of  yielding  to  the  then  recent  revolution  in 
trade,  and  closing  the  office  up.  A  week  after  the 
arrival  at  Newport,  a  fog  set  in,  which  led  Mrs. 
Wahring  to  order  fires.  The  flues  in  the  new  ad- 
dition had  been  built  as  usual,  though  the  usual 
conflagration  which  they  occasioned  had  not  been 
subdued  with  the  usual  success,  but  had  burned 
the  house  down,  and  sent  the  ladies  back  to  their 
town  house  without  their  natural  guide — the  hus- 
band and  father — to  determine  their  course  for 
the  season. 

Mr.  Calmire  determined  it,  however,  by  saying : 
"  Now,  Cousin  Hilda,  the  judicious  gods  evidently 
burned  down  that  well-insured  house  to  reward 
my  virtues.  I  need  you  and  Nina  this  Summer. 
For  one  reason  and  another,  my  children  are  all 
away,  though  I  had  to  make  some  of  them  go. 
You  know  how  lonely  I  am.  I  have  ordered 
Fleuvemont  opened.  Pierre  has  been  up  there, 
and  reports  everything  ready.  But  it  will  be  a 
dreary  place  with  no  woman  in  it,  and  I  cannot 
count  on  even  Muriel  to  stick  by  me  long  at  a  time. 
I  must  have  you  and  Nina  there.  Go  up  with  me 
Wednesday  evening,  and  lay  me  under  a  lasting 
obligation." 

After  some  demur,  a  few  inquiries,  and  unmis- 
takable indications  that  Calmire  meant  what  he 


A  Real  Ghost.  5 

said,  as  he  always  did  when  he  spoke  seriously, 
Mrs.  Wahring,  without  consulting  Nina,  said  that 
they  would  accept  the  invitation. 

"  You  will  grant  the  favor,  you  mean.  Wednes- 
day, then,  we  leave  Forty-second  Street  at  eight. 
I'm  sorry  that  I  have  a  special  appointment  which 
prevents  my  going  earlier  in  the  day." 

Wednesday  turned  out  an  oppressively  hot  day. 
At  three  o'clock,  this  note  was  put  in  Mrs.  Wahr- 
ing's  hands  : 

"  35  WALL  STREET,  Wednesday,  2.10  P.M. 

"  DEAR  COUSIN  HILDA  :  The  person  whom  I  was 
to  see  to-day  has  been  delayed  some  hours  by  a  rail- 
way breakdown.  The  business  is  very  important 
and  cannot  be  postponed.  I  must  stay  in  town 
overnight.  It's  too  hot  for  you  and  Nina  to  stay, 
and  you  are  all  packed  for  going.  Your  staying 
would  add  to  the  discomfort  I  must  suffer.  Pray 
go.  Take  the  six  train.  As  you  are  alone,  it  will 
be  pleasanter  to  get  in  early.  I  have  telegraphed 
the  servants  to  expect  you.  I  will  join  you  to- 
morrow. 

"  Ever  yours,  L.  C." 

So  here  they  were,  at  Fleuvemont,  in  the  dark, 
and  of  the  servants  they  knew  to  be  inside,  not 
one  paying  any  attention  to  the  hackman's  ring- 
ing. Much  less  had  any  of  them  taken  the  pains 
to  meet  the  guests  at  the  station.  And  Miss  Nina 
Wahring,  among  whose  many  undisciplined  pow- 
ers at  eighteen  was  a  temper,  had  that  power  in  a 
very  pretty  state  of  excitation. 

She  rushed  into  the  house. 


6  A  Real  Ghost. 

She  had  heard  the  place  described  as  impressive, 
and  so  it  was.  The  hall  was  of  noble  proportions. 
The  doors  on  the  sides  were  large  and  dark,  and 
framed  in  heavy  carvings.  The  walls  were  pan- 
eled with  dark  oak  to  within  a  yard  of  the  ceiling, 
which  also  was  paneled.  Between  the  ceiling  and 
the  wall-panels,  was  a  frieze  of  dark  leather,  cov- 
ered with  antlers,  antique  weapons,  and  bits  of 
armor.  At  the  remote  end  of  the  hall,  on  high 
pedestals,  were  the  effigies  of  two  knights  in  full 
mail.  The  lamps  were  placed  where  they  could 
not  distract  attention  from  the  whole  effect,  so  the 
light  was  subdued,  and  over  all  was  silence. 

Nina's  impetuous  steps  grew  slower  almost 
upon  the  threshold.  Her  irritation  was  forgot- 
ten, and  she  felt  as  if  she  had  come  suddenly 
into  some  land  of  dreams.  She  walked  lightly,  as 
if  afraid  of  breaking  a  spell.  Soon,  at  the  left 
of  the  mailed  figures  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
broad  niched  staircase,  appeared  the  light,  softened 
through  great  globes,  which  rose  from  a  mass  of 
weapons  stacked  amid  a  base  of  shields.  Passing 
to  the  farther  side  of  these,  she  rested  her  left  hand 
on  one  of  them,  and  gazed  up  to  where,  beyond  the 
gloomy  curves  of  the  stairs,  shining  through  the 
roof-light,  she  saw  two  stars. 

She  made  a  lovely  picture  as  she  stood  there — 
her  slight  figure,  in  its  diaphanous  Summer  dra- 
pery, thrown  in  bold  relief  against  the  dark  panels 
behind  her — her  fair,  upturned  face  and  careless 
red-gold  hair  against  the  great  dark-lined  hat,  al- 
most aureoled  by  the  soft  lights  at  whose  pedestal 
she  half  supported  herself. 


A  Real  Ghost.  7 

For  some  moments  she  had  forgotten  her  pur- 
pose, when  it  was  brought  back  by  the  noise  of  a 
door  closing  upstairs.  She  called: 

"  I  say,  there!" 

No  answer,  the  silence  gaining  in  impressiveness 
by  the  contrast  with  her  echoed  voice.  A  feeling 
came  over  her  that  she  did  not  half  like,  but  she 
imperiously  smothered  it  and  waited  for  some 
repetition  of  the  noise.  Soon  another  door  closed 
and  footsteps  began  descending  the  stairs. 

"  No  need  of  calling  now!"  she  thought  wearily, 
for  she  was  very  tired. 

A  flight  or  two  above,  there  emerged  from 
the  shadows,  a  tall  figure  in  dark  dress.  As 
it  came  down,  she  slowly  realized,  with  a  feel- 
ing almost  uncanny,  that  the  brown  costume 
was  not  a  livery,  but  a  doublet  with  wide  lace 
collar,  trunks,  and  jack-boots  with  great  spurs, 
and  slung  over  one  arm  was  a  heavy  sword.  The 
face,  though  she  could  not  see  it  very  clearly,  was 
plainly  young,  but  serious,  with  a  square  brow, 
deep  eyes,  and  a  straight  nose.  The  hair  was  cut 
close,  and  there  was  a  dark  mustache.  The  young 
Roundhead  advanced  slowly,  lost  in  thought,  un- 
observant of  the  graceful  addition  that  had  been 
made  to  the  massive  objects  below  him. 

She  was  rapt  in  contemplation  of  the  noble 
presence  until  it  reached  the  last  platform  of  the 
staircase,  stopped,  gazed  at  her  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  said  slowly,  in  a  rich,  sweet  voice: 

"  If  you're  a  vision,  pray  don't  vanish  before  I 
have  a  closer  view," 


8  A  Real  Ghost. 

"  If  you're  a  ghost,  you  take  a  very  mundane 
tone  for  one." 

"  I  am  a  ghost,  but  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  Thank  you,  I  won't.  But  why  do  you  take  the 
trouble  to  be  a  ghost  ?  Is  it  your  own  sins  or  other 
people's  that  disturb  your  rest?" 

"A  good  deal  of  both,  sometimes.  I'm  only  one 
of  Carlyle's  ghosts,  though,  just  as  you  are,  if  you're 
really  not  a  dream.  He  says  we're  all  ghosts." 

"  Ghosts  get  pretty  tired  and  hungry,  then,  some- 
times. Didn't  you  expect  us  ?  I  didn't  come  to 
vanish." 

"  I'm  very  glad  of  that,"  he  said,  descending  the 
stairs.  "  But  I  didn't  expect  anybody.  I  came  my- 
self only  half  an  hour  ago,  to  go  to  a  ball.  I'm  Mr. 
Muriel  Calmire,  very  much  at  your  service,  and  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  addressing — ?" 

"  Miss  Wahring;"  and  she  added,  holding  out 
her  hand:  "  Perhaps  we'd  better  test  each  other's 
substantiality,  especially  as  you're  one  of  the 
family,  and  I'm  going  to  stay  here  ever  so  long." 

They  shook  hands  very  substantially  for  a  first 
meeting,  and  he  said:  "Oh  yes!  I've  heard  the 
name  in  the  family.  I  think  I  met  your  father 
once.  General,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  was, — of  volunteers.  But  it's  odd  your 
father  didn't  let  you  know  we  were  coming." 

"Uncle  Grand  isn't  my  father,"  he  said;  "but 
he's  nearer  a  father  than  anybody  else.  He  lets 
me  come  and  go  as  I  please.  He  didn't  know  I 
was  coming  now.  When  did  you  come  ?" 

"Why,  we've  just  got  here,  and  mamma  is  wait- 
ing in  the  carriage  while  we're  discussing  family 
history." 


A  Real  Ghost.  9 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  and  started  for  the  car- 
riage without  a  word  of  apology. 

When  he  emerged  from  the  door  and  ran  down 
in  the  dim  light  to  the  first  landing,  whence  two 
flights  of  steps  wound  down  to  the  right  and  left, 
Mrs.  Wahring,  whose  annoyance  had  been  in- 
creased by  the  delay  inside,  hailed  him  with: 

"  Come,  help  the  maid  with  these  things.  You 
people  seem  very  careless.  Didn't  you  get  your 
master's  telegram  ?" 

"  You  mean  Mr.  Calmire's  ?"  he  said. 

"  Certainly.     Who  else  employs  you  ?" 

"  Nobody  else!"  and  he  reached  the  carriage-door 
and  offered  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Wahring,  not  stopping  to  reflect  that  the 
Calmire  servants  were  not  apt  to  wear  mustaches, 
ignored  the  proffered  hand  as  she  got  out,  and 
said: 

"  There  are  two  dressing-bags  in  there,  two 
parasols,  and  two  umbrellas  tied  together.  One 
trunk,  that  you  may  help  the  man  with,  is  behind. 
The  rest  will  be  up  in  the  morning." 

Then  she  started  up  the  steps.  Muriel  took  some 
of  the  things,  leaving  the  rest  for  the  maid,  and 
followed  Mrs.  Wahring.  His  quicker  steps  brought 
him  beside  her  on  the  landing,  and  after  two  or 
three  paces  more  he  dropped  a  parasol,  and  it  broke. 

"  Stupid  !"  she  exclaimed,  not  quite  intending 
him  to  hear.  But  he  did  hear,  and  turning  to  her, 
half  angry  and  half  amused,  said: 

"  I've  not  been  very  long  at  this  work  ;"  but  he 
explained  no  further,  and  was  too  angry  to  ex- 
press any  regret. 


IO  A  Real  Ghost- 

Nina  was  at  the  door,  waiting  for  them.  When 
he  stopped  to  pick  up  the  pieces  of  the  parasol, 
Mrs.  Wahring  got  ahead  of  him,  and  when  he  ap- 
peared with  the  things  in  the  half  light,  she  ex- 
claimed to  her  daughter: 

"  Well !  that's  the  strangest  livery  I  ever  saw  !" 

The  two  young  people  broke  into  a  laugh.  Mu- 
riel's little  irritation  was  soothed  by  it;  and  as  soon 
as  Nina  could,  she  said  : 

"Mamma,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire." 

Mrs.  Wahring  flushed  at  first,  but  soon  joined  in 
the  laugh,  shook  hands  with  him,  and  said  : 

"  How  could  you  let  me  speak  to  you  in  that 
manner?  It  wasn't  fair." 

"You're  probably  entitled  to  choose  your  own 
manner  of  speech,"  he  answered,  still  a  little  un- 
amiable. 

"  But  you  deceived  me." 

"  You  deceived  yourself." 

"  Mr.  Calmire  told  me,"  she  continued,  "  that  you 
weren't  expected  for  some  time.  Of  course  I  was 
out  of  patience  with  the  servants.  I  couldn't  see 
in  the  dark  that  you  were  a  gentleman,  and  "  (after 
a  little  pause)  "perhaps  you'll  excuse  my  saying 
that  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  the  act  of  one  not 
to  let  me  know  who  you  were." 

He  flushed,  and  said  bluntly:  "  Your  tone  of 
voice  irritated  me,  and  when  I  saw  the  joke,  it 
seemed  too  good  to  let  go  all  at  once." 

"I  was  out  of  temper,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring,  "and 
I  had  no  right  to  go  as  far  as  I  did.  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"Pray  don't  mention   it.     Consider   me  always 


A  Real  Ghost.  II 

your  servant,  madam."  He  accompanied  his  words 
with  a  bow  and  a  smile,  but  apparently  he  did  not 
realize  that  he  had  anything  to  apologize  for. 

"  But  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  in  that 
costume  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wahring.  "  There's  nothing 
going  on  here  to-night,  is  there  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  I'm  going  off.  as  soon  as  I  see  you 
taken  care  of.  I  wonder  what  ails  those  con- 
founded servants.  Didn't  anybody  know  you  were 
coming  ?" 

"Yes;  at  least  Mr.  Calmire  telegraphed,  and  we 
rang  and  rang." 

"  The  bell  must  be  out  of  order,"  he  said. 
"  Uncle  Grand  has  been  away  so  long  that  pretty 
much  everything  is.  I'll  ring  again.  Pray  be 
seated,"  and  he  motioned  them  toward  one  of  the 
great  carved  benches.  Then  he  opened  the  draw- 
ing-room door  next  them,  put  his  hand  inside,  and 
pulled  a  heavy  old-fashioned  silk  bell-cord.  In  a 
moment  a  maid  appeared,  and  he  said: 

"  Where  are  the  men  ?" 

"  Down  at  the  village,  sir.  Didn't  know  they'd 
be  needed  before  ten." 

"  Didn't  you  get  a  telegram  about  these  ladies  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  We  only  expected  Mr.  Calmire  in  the 
eleven-o'clock  train." 

"  Country  telegraph  offices!"  exclaimed  Muriel. 
"  Is  the  library  lit?"  he  asked  the  maid,  who  said 
yes,  and  then  he  explained  to  the  ladies,  as  he  led 
them  to  the  room:  "  Evidently  the  lost  telegram 
contained  Uncle  Grand's  instructions  about  you, 
and  so  the  drawing-room  is  not  lit.  He  always 
has  them  light  the  library  for  him,  though." 


12  A  Real  Ghost. 

The  great  room  they  entered  was  two  stories 
high,  with  two  galleries,  and  on  the  floor,  alcoved 
shelves  out  to  the  edge  of  the  lower  gallery.  The 
room  had  been  built  by  Calmire's  father,  who  was 
a  collector  of  vast  quantities  of  books  that  he  sel- 
dom read.  Calmire,  on  the  other  hand,  was  quite 
a  student. 

The  tired  ladies  were  put  between  a  huge  study- 
table  and  the  great  fireplace,  in  two  big,  com- 
fortable Turkish  chairs — comfortable  at  least  in 
Muriel's  eyes,  though  the  backs  were  not  straight 
enough  for  a  woman's  ideal;  and  Mr.  Muriel  dis- 
posed himself  in  an  old  Canterbury  chair,  before 
the  logs  which,  though  unlit  in  the  Summer  night, 
still  looked  comfortably  suggestive:  and  he,  with 
the  big  fireplace,  the  old  chair,  and  his  Cromwellian 
dress,  made  a  picture  that  the  ladies  never  forgot. 
For  a  large  room,  the  one  they  were  in  was  amaz- 
ingly cosy,  partly  because  it  had  been  much  lived 
in  by  a  cheerful  spirit  fond  of  light  and  color. 

"Now,  Mary,  have  you  anything  to  eat?"  said 
Mr.  Muriel  to  the  maid,  in  a  characteristically 
direct  way,  indifferent  to  the  minor  convention- 
alities that  would  have  led  to  domestic  discussions 
aside,  or  to  an  apology  for  entering  upon  them  be- 
fore his  stranger  guests. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir;  I  can  order  dinner  at  once,"  she 
answered. 

"No,  no!"  protested  Mrs.  Wahring.  "We  had 
something  substantial  before  we  started." 

"  But  Miss  Wahring  has  already  plead  guilty  to 
an  appetite,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  lady.     "  It  was  too  hot  tC 


A  Real  Ghost.  13 

eat  in  town,  except  as  a  precautionary  measure. 
I'm  ready  to  do  it  seriously  now,  though." 

"  Good  Lord !"  thought  Muriel  to  himself, 
"there  goes  my  vision!"  He  was  very  young  and 
very  imaginative,  and  therefore,  of  course,  a  good 
deal  of  a  fool.  This  shade  of  "  disillusion,"  as  he 
saw  fit  to  consider  it,  made  it  easier  for  him,  after 
a  few  more  explanations  and  the  necessary  orders 
for  the  ladies'  comfort,  to  say  to  them: 

"And  now  I  must  bid  you  good-night  I  have 
an  appointment  and  a  six-mile  drive  before  me. 
I  trust  you  will  find  yourselves  entirely  at  home, 
and  that  to-morrow  I  can  hear  you  say  you  have 
been." 

He  bowed  and  was  off.  Somehow  the  almost 
cordial  beginning  that  the  various  contretemps  had 
given  to  their  acquaintance,  did  not  seem  quite  sus- 
tained. So  much  spontaneity  seldom  is,  in  our  self- 
conscious  and  sophisticated  age;  though  the  rela- 
tions with  each  other  that  we  sometimes  build 
when  there  is  time  enough,  are  probably  as  endur- 
ing as  they  are  deliberate. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A    YOUTH    OF    THE    PERIOD. 

THIS  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire  was  rather  a  chaotic 
young  person,  in  both  ancestry  and  education. 
His  family  was  of  French  extraction  and  pro- 
nounced its  name  in  the  French  way.  His 
great-grandfather,  Honore  Calmire,  a  Louisiana 
planter,  had,  while  studying  abroad,  married  a 
daughter  of  Nina's  great-grandfather,  General 
Freiherr  von  Wahring;  their  son  Legrand  was  edu- 
cated in  New  England,  and  while  in  college  met  his 
wife,  who  was  an  unmixed  descendant  of  the  Puri- 
tans. Their  sons,  including  Muriel's  father,  were 
all  educated  North  and  settled  there,  marrying 
again  into  the  Puritan  stock,  which  had  now,  in 
spite  of  the  family's  French  name,  become  the 
dominant  strain  in  the  branch  of  it  with  which  we 
have  to  do. 

Muriel's  parents  died  early,  from  some  local 
zymotic  disease,  while  they  were  visiting  one  of  his 
aunts  at  the  South,  and  that  threw  the  child  in  his 
early  years  principally  among  his  Southern  rela- 
tives. As  he  grew  older,  he  drifted  more  toward 
his  mother's  sister  Amelia,  who  had  married  his 
father's  brother  John,  and  later  toward  his  uncle 
Legrand. 

But  Legrand  was  much  away  from  home  during 
Muriel's  formative  years,  at  least  during  such  of 

14 


A    Youth  of  i 'he  Period,  15 

them  as  had  passed  before  this  narrative  opens, 
and  the  boy  had  felt  only  enough  of  his  influence 
to  counteract  much  of  that  of  his  aunts'  husbands 
at  the  South.  These  gentlemen  had  led  him  to  enter 
a  Southern  "University,"  where  Muriel,  being  very 
precocious,  had  graduated  at  nineteen.  He  had 
meanwhile  picked  up  some  ideas  during  his  visits 
to  his  aunt  Amelia  and  uncle  Legrand,  which  de- 
termined him  to  enter  the  junior  year  at  a  leading 
Northern  university.  There  he  had  done  brill- 
iantly just  what  he  liked,  including  many  things 
he  would  better  not  have  done  at  all,  had  failed 
deliberately  in  such  enforced  studies  as  he  did  not 
like,  and  had  finished  his  complex  career  a  few 
weeks  before  this  story  opens. 

His  Southern  college  had  been  almost  virgin  to 
the  revolution  in  thought  of  the  preceding  twenty 
years.  By  nature,  Muriel  was  made  to  accept 
the  new  light,  but  he  had  caught  only  faint 
glimpses  of  it  from  his  uncle  Legrand,  and  when  he 
came  into  full  view  of  it  at  his  Northern  university, 
it  of  course  developed  in  him  a  very  pretty  radical 
iconoclasm.  As  so  many  of  the  ideas  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  up,  were  now  proved  absurd,  of 
course  he  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  most  all 
were,  and  he  seldom  had  eyes  or  ears  for  that  por- 
tion of  his  new  teachings  which  simply  adds  sup- 
port to  the  most  important  features  of  his  old  ones. 
Moreover,  he  was  too  fond  of  amusing  himself,  to 
thoroughly  study  the  new  philosophy  and  incor- 
porate it  into  the  working  fibre  of  his  being.  Yet 
despite  his  spasmodic  and  superficial  interest  in 
those  strong  thoughts,  he  was,  by  virtue  of  the 


1 6  A  Youth  of  the  Period. 

German  strain  in  him,  something  of  a  dreamer, 
and  even  capable  of  pumping  up  tolerable  verses. 

In  college,  he  had  been  greatly  loved  and  greatly 
hated.  He  was  bright,  accomplished,  and  genial, 
save  for  occasional  moods;  full  of  initiative  and 
energy,  and  liberal  enough  with  what  it  cost  him 
no  inconvenience  to  spare.  He  had  even  been 
known,  a  few  times,  not  to  stop  at  inconvenience. 
But  as  he  was  rough  and  hearty  and  strong,  he 
demanded  that  everybody  else  should  be  rough 
and  hearty  and  strong.  He  was  brutally  candid: 
give  and  take  was  his  gamo,  though  he  entirely 
overestimated  his  own  readiness  to  "take,"  as  such 
youngsters  are  apt  to. 

He  was  by  nature  moral  and  kindly.  But  he 
was  impetuous,  and  had  not  had  that  steady  home 
influence  which  curbs  selfishness  and  passion.  His 
very  strength  made  him  weak  before  some  tempta- 
tions, and  he  had  never  known  his  mother. 

His  powerful  constitution  had,  so  far,  carried  his 
body,  at  least,  safely  through  the  wildest  follies  of 
youth,  and  the  centuries  of  sturdy  puritanism  in 
his  veins  had  got  him  through  without  his  deceiv- 
ing anybody  or  taking  anything  that  he  did  not 
pay  for.  But  his  arm  was  long  and  his  grasp  was 
strong.  To  his  fervid  impulses,  woman  was  a  toy 
when  she  presented  herself  as  such,  yet  in  his 
equally  fervid  imagination,  when  she  was  not  a 
toy,  there  was  always  room  for  her  as  a  goddess. 

After  he  had  left  Mrs.  Wahring  and  her  daughter, 
he  was  bothered  once  or  twice  by  a  faint  question 
whether  he  ought  to  have  left  them  at  all,  or  at 


A  Youth  of  the  Period.  17 

least  whether  he  ought  not  to  have  waited  until 
they  should  have  left  him,  for  their  rooms.  He 
felt  that  this  question  had  already  contributed  to 
the  slight  shadow  over  the  evening's  cordiality. 
Even  the  idea  of  turning  back  presented  itself  to 
his  imagination.  But  the  same  momentum  of 
character  which  had  impelled  him,  in  spite  of  the 
ladies,  in  the  direction  he  had  started,  of  course 
carried  him  past  the  notion  of  turning  back.  He 
had  made  an  "appointment,"  whose  nature  maybe 
inferred  later,  and  that  momentum  of  his  was  al- 
ways strong  in  the  direction  of  a  promise,  even  if 
it  were  one  that  might  perhaps  better  be  honored 
in  the  breach  than  in  the  observance.  But  where 
amusement  was  waiting,  he  was  not  apt  to  trouble 
himself  long  over  questions  that  involved  anything 
less  than  his  good  faith;  so  he  soon  drove  the 
present  ones  away  with  a  "  Vive  la  bagatelle!",  and 
gave  his  powerful  stepper  an  extra  touch  that 
jerked  the  groom  behind  him  out  of  his  nap,  and 
nearly  out  of  the  dog-cart. 

This  "  ball  "  to  which  he  betook  himself  was  one 
that  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  he  had  any  busi- 
ness to  go  to.  It  was  given  by  a  fire  company  in  a 
neighboring  village  where  his  uncles,  and  he  him- 
self by  inheritance,  were  owners  of  large  factories. 
He  did  not  by  any  means,  however,  go  in  the  char- 
acter of  "  lord  of  the  manor,"  to  give  the  enter- 
tainment the  lustre  of  his  patronage,  but  he  went 
because  he  wanted  to  have  a  good  time,  and  be- 
cause, of  late,  one  side  of  his  nature  was  more  apt 
to  find  a  good  time  in  the  excitements  of  such  free 
and  easy  assemblages,  than  amid  the  conventional 


1 8  A  Youth  of  the  Period. 

proprieties  to  which  he  was  born.  Had  the  enter- 
tainment been  a  symphony  concert,  he  would  have 
been  equally  apt  to  go;  but  had  it  been  a  concert 
of  commonplace  music,  he  would  have  cared  as 
little  for  it  as  for  a  ball  characterized  by  the  com- 
monplace proprieties.  He  would  have  cared  for 
the  latter,  however,  if  he  had  been  sure  of  meeting 
any  women  who  would,  as  he  would  have  been  apt 
to  phrase  it,  "  stir  him  up."  But,  young  as  he  was, 
excitement  of  some  kind  was  growing  to  be  a  crav- 
ing with  him,  and  he  was  nearing  that  dangerous 
point  where  one  disregards  the  cost  of  it. 

To  do  him  justice,  however,  amid  the  excitements 
of  this  company,  he  did  think  more  than  once,  with 
little  self-approbation,  of  the  widely  different  com- 
pany he  had  forsaken. 

After  tearing  several  skirts  with  his  big  spurs, 
until,  partly  at  the  recommendation  of  a  friend,  he 
took  them  off;  after  also  disarranging  two  or  three 
quadrilles  with  his  long  sword,  emptying  a  plate 
of  salad  over  the  hired  pink  satin  court-dress  worn 
by  one  of  his  partners,  fascinating  the  reigning  and 
two  vice-regnant  belles  of  that  circle,  and  loading 
himself  with  the  mysterious  but  effective  punch  to 
be  found  at  such  assemblies,  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire 
had  returned  home  with  a  clear  head  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  when  Miss  Nina  Wahring 
bloomed  upon  the  piazza  at  eight,  was  still  in- 
tensely engrossed  in  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    GIRL    NOT    OF    THE    PERIOD. 

THAT  circumstance,  or  rather  the  non-appearance 
which,  for  some  hours,  it  entailed,  was  on  the  whole 
rather  congenial  with  the  young  lady's  taste.  Mu- 
riel was  a  creature  new  to  her  experience,  and  not 
yet  satisfactorily  classified.  He  was  handsome, 
she  did  not  recall  anybody  handsomer,  and  bright 
enough,  but  he  was  not  altogether  agreeable.  True, 
he  had  been  passably  peaceable  under  her  mother's 
assault,  and  shown  a  certain  dignified  courtesy  at 
first;  but  he  had  not  displayed  much  tact  in  man- 
aging tne  situation,  and  on  the  whole  had  lacked 
deference.  When  it  was  plain  that  he  was  mainly 
in  the  wrong,  he  had  not  squarely  owned  up,  but 
had  tried  to  make  courtesy  take  the  place  of  con- 
fession. No  !  He  was  handsome,  intelligent,  vi- 
vacious, thoughtful,  perhaps  truthful;  but  he  was 
subject  to  fits  of  awkwardness;  he  was  not  very 
chivalrous,  not  given  to  owning  himself  in  the 
wrong,  was  possibly  selfish,  and  probably  con- 
ceited. She  experienced  something  like  a  sense 
of  relief  at  not  finding  him  on  the  piazza. 

After  breakfast,  the  ladies  busied  themselves  in 
supervising  the  unpacking  and  getting  their  belong, 
ings  suitably  bestowed.  One  of  the  several  respects 
in  which  Nina  was  like  heaven,  was  that  order 

19 


20  A  Girl  Not  of  the  Period. 

was  her  first  law.  Neatness  she  inherited  from 
her  mother;  the  good  taste  would  have  had  to  be 
sought  in  some  other  ancestor. 

I  have  looked  for  Nina's  face  in  most  of  the 
great  galleries  of  the  world,  but  in  vain.  The 
nearest  to  it  is  an  angel  at  the  left  in  a  round  Bot- 
ticelli in  the  Uffizi,  in  the  last  room  north-east  of 
the  Tribune.  Nina's  face  had  the  same  general 
character  and  the  same  sympathetic  earnestness, 
but  with  more  impression  of  thoughtfulness.  Her 
hair  was  more  the  color  of  red  bronze,  and  covered 
a  broader  brow.  But,  after  all,  what  is  there  worth 
describing  about  a  woman,  that  can  be  described  ? 
Her  beauty,  if  supreme,  cannot  be  described  ; 
her  sympathies  can  be  felt,  but  they  can  be  de- 
scribed only  by  describing  that  which  she  sym- 
pathizes with,  and  that  is  not  what  she  feels,  and 
makes  you  feel,  regarding  it.  If  you  go  into  her 
ancestry,  you  cannot  indicate  those  best  things 
there,  any  better  than  you  can  in  herself.  If 
you  go  into  her  education,  if  she  happens  to  have 
a  little,  you  cannot  convey  the  quick  and  subtle 
uses  she  makes  of  it,  and  you  might  as  well  be 
talking  about  a  boy.  The  bold  facts  that  go 
to  make  up  a  man  can  be  told  about;  but  try 
to  give  the  make-up  of  a  woman  in  correspond- 
ing details,  and  you  produce  but  a  weak  image 
of  a  man.  Ask  a  woman  for  a  definition  and 
ten  to  one  she  will  give  you  an  illustration;  and  if 
she  is  a  very  great  woman,  and  you  don't  stop  to 
force  logic  out  of  her,  her  illustration  will  help  you 
to  make  for  yourself  a  definition  better  than  any 
man  is  apt  to  give  you.  So  a  woman  herself,  if  she  is 


A  Girl  Not  of  the  Period.  21 

very  woman,  had  better  be  indicated  by  illustra- 
tions. She  cannot  be  narrowed  within  terminolo- 
gies, any  more  than  poetry  can,  and  her  subtleties 
can  be  caught  only  through  watching  her  and  lis- 
tening to  her.  I  have  tried  to  give  some  set  notion 
of  Muriel,  and  shall  try  to  give  some  of  Calmire  ; 
but  Nina? — she  was  beyond  it.  It  might  be  done 
for  a  lesser  woman  ;  but  for  her  I  had  best  only 
attempt  a  little  of  what  she  said  and  did.  Yet  in 
cold  print,  how  like  what  all  other  women  say  and 
do,  must  it  appear! 

The  faint  sense  of  relief  to  Nina  occasioned  by 
Mr.  Muriel's  absence  from  breakfast,  was  clouded 
a  little  at  luncheon  by  a  shadow  of  unsatisfied 
curiosity  and,  it  must  be  admitted,  by  a  womanly 
fear  that  the  young  gentleman  might  have  a  head- 
ache. Reminiscences  of  the  conversation  of  other 
young  gentlemen,  even  awakened  in  her  a  solici- 
tude as  to  whether  the  resources  of  Fleuvemont, 
so  early  in  its  occupancy,  could  be  depended  upon 
to  the  extent  of  soda-water. 

Dismissing  these  cares,  however,  she  announced: 
"  Mamma,  while  you  are  taking  your  nap,  I  shall 
take  a  book  and  lounge  around  the  grounds." 
It  was  a  peculiarity  in  Nina's  diction  never  to  say, 
"I  am  going  to"  do  anything;  it  was  always  the 
succinct  "  I  shall,"  or  "  I  will." 

The  day  was  delightful.  Here  and  there  some 
belated  roses  filled  the  soft  air  with  sweetness. 
Away  from  the  river,  she  saw  to  the  East,  a 
gentle  descent  dotted  with  trees,  among  them  an 
orchard,  and,  perhaps  a  mile  away,  a  second  roll  of 


22  A  Girl  Not  of  the  Period. 

hills,  wild,  with  boulders  and,  she  knew,  mullens. 

"  This  world  ends  there  !"  she  said  to  herself. 

Turning  South,  where  the  ground  sloped  gently 
downward,  she  wandered  along  from  one  point  of 
view,  or  one  attractive  plant  or  wild  flower,  to 
another,  and  at  length  deposited  herself  on  the  turf 
beneath  a  great  oak  whose  branches  shaded  her,  but 
were  too  high  to  obstruct  the  view  which  offered  it- 
self for  miles  in  many  directions.  She  gazed  at  the 
beautiful  scene  for  a  few  .ninutes,  and  then  began 
to  read  a  story  in  the  magazine  she  carried. 

She  was  pleasantly  interested,  when  she  real- 
ized that  strains  of  distant  music  had  for  some 
time  been  contending  for  her  rttention.  She  dis- 
tinguished the  notes  of  a  cornet,  well  played  and 
with  intense,  almost  exaggerated,  feeling.  The 
artist  scattered  scraps  of  jerky  dance-music  among 
passionate  cavatinas  and  even  majestic  sacred  melo- 
dies ;  and  despite  his  skill  and  feeling,  he  seemed 
indifferent  to  accuracy,  though  occasionally  he 
would  repeat  an  unsuccessful  passage,  and  once, 
though  once  only,  struggled  with  a  phrase  of 
enormous  difficulty  until  he  had  conquered  it. 

Nina  enjoyed  many  of  the  player's  gentler 
strains,  and  felt  moved  as  she  had  seldom  been  by 
some  of  his  bursts  of  passion,  but  she  was  annoyed 
by  a  carelessness  that  his  evident  power  showed  to 
be  almost  contemptuous. 

"A  very  unusual  player  to  be  practicing  for  one 
of  these  country  bands,"  thought  Nina.  After  per- 
haps fifteen  minutes  of  the  music,  it  ceased.  She 
vainly  waited  some  time  for  it  to  be  renewed,  and 
then  betook  herself  again  to  her  book, 


A  Girl  Not  of  the  Period.  23 

Lingering  mental  echoes  of  the  intense  music 
made  her  story  seem  very  flat,  but  she  struggled 
through  to  the  final  orthodox  distribution  of  re- 
wards and  punishments,  and  then  took  up  her 
wrap  and  proceeded  toward  the  house. 

On  the  piazza  toward  her,  she  saw  her  mother, 
Mr.  Calmire,  and,  sitting  a  little  apart  with  a  meer- 
schaum and,  apparently,  a  French  novel,  a  gentle- 
man in  a  rather  loud  plaid  knickerbocker  suit  in 
the  height  of  the  fashion  then  prevalent,  and  a 
red  tie  (which  she  felt  that  no  man  of  taste  would 
have  been  apt  to  wear  on  a  bright  day),  and  in  the 
wearer  she  recognized  to  her  astonishment  her 
grave  Roundhead  of  the  night  before  Certainly 
the  removal  of  the  jack-boots  had  not  affected  his 
appearance  unfavorably,  for  the  rough  Scotch 
stockings  were  extremely  becoming  to  him,  or  he 
to  them,  and  he  knew  it. 

The  people  did  not  see  her  until  she  passed  a 
clump  of  flowering  shrubs  near  the  piazza.  Then 
Calmire  ran  down  the  steps,  laughing,  and  said: 
"Lucky  you  came  up  without  me,  wasn't  it?  If 
I'd  come,  you'd  have  missed  your  unique  recep- 
tion." 

"  Yet  we  missed  you,"  she  answered. 

"I  half  regretted  sending  you  out,"  said  he,  "for 
you  had  hardly  gone,  when  there  sprang  up  one  of 
those  sea-breezes  which  so  often  save  us  in  New 
York,  and  we  had  a  delightfully  cool  evening,  and 
pleasant  morning." 

"You  show  it,  and  I'm  very  glad  of  it,"  said 
Nina,  both  her  hands  still  in  his. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A    MAN    OF    SEVERAL    PERIODS. 

HE  did  show  it.  His  face  was  very  strong  and 
buoyant,  despite  the  traces  of  much  thought,  and 
much  suffering  and  the  overcoming  of  it.  He 
was  a  little  over  fifty,  and  simply  Muriel  thirty 
years  older.  There  were  a  few  gray  streaks  at  the 
chin  in  the  short  parted  beard,  and  in  the  mustache, 
hardly  any  noticeable  in  the  hair.  He  was  per- 
haps a  fourth  heavier  than  Muriel,  but  was  well 
proportioned,  and  light  and  graceful  in  his  move- 
ments. What  he  wore,  nobody  ever  noticed,  though 
in  the  evening,  when  he  was  dressed  exactly  like 
other  men,  he  seemed  most  distinguished  from 
them. 

The  Calmire  face  does  not  appear  in  any  of  the 
world's  great  pictures,  probably  because  it  is  too 
modern.  It  is  suggested,  though,  by  that  direct- 
ness which  Velasquez  got  into  most  of  his  portraits 
through  his  unique  power  of  feeling  the  qualities 
in  a  man  which,  if  anything,  the  man  must  express- 
Even  had  I  not  described  Calmire's  ancestry  with 
Muriel's,  it  would  be  rather  superfluous  to  do  so,  for 
men  of  his  character  usually  conquer  their  antece- 
dents by  the  time  they  reach  his  age.  For  the  same 
reason  I  need  not  detail  his  education.  M.  Thomas 
has  said:  "  You  can  educate  the  average  man, 

2-1 


A  Man  of  Several  Periods.  25 

but  you  cannot  educate  the  genius.  He  will  edu- 
cate himself,  and  his  first  step  will  be  to  tear  away 
the  education  provided  for  him."  Calmire  had 
enough  genius  to  make  this  apply  in  no  small 
degree  to  him. 

Other  countries  than  America  may  perhaps 
produce  better  men  than  he,  but  only  America 
can  produce  exactly  such  a  man.  He  was  an 
"American  business  man,"  but  with  most  of  the 
associations  which  in  other  countries  are  reserved 
to  men  outside  of  business.  He  had  succeeded 
his  father  in  large  manufacturing  interests,  but 
had  also  served  his  country  in  the  Cabinet  and  at 
foreign  courts.  His  diverse  experiences,  acting  on 
a  comprehensive  character,  had  made  him  that 
rare  creature — a  man  with  wide  sympathies  and 
no  little  knowledge  from  books  and  the  arts,  who  at 
the  same  time  knew  men  and  life — was  systematic 
and  practical,  aifd  abundantly  able  to  take  care  of 
himself  and  the  many  dependent  upon  him.  He 
had  accepted  his  business  as  a  matter  of  course,  for 
without  it,  he  would  have  had  to  limit  the  habits 
of  living  which  were  natural  from  his  birth.  But 
while  he  was  entirely  adequate  to  his  affairs,  they 
could  not  touch  the  greater  part  of  his  faculties, 
much  less  absorb  them,  and  he  had  been  able  to 
allow  himself  leisure  to  yield  to  his  spirit's  insati- 
ate demand  that  it  should  keep  pace  with  all  the 
important  advances  of  thought. 

He  had  done  well  as  a  politician  and  diplomatist, 
but  he  was  neither  politic  nor  diplomatic  enough 
to  become  more  absorbed  in  either  pursuit  than  he 
had  been  in  business.  He  was  tempted,  in  fact,  to 


26  A  Man  of  Several  Periods. 

class  all  three  with  "  details,"  and  for  details  he  had 
no  fancy.  He  sought  principles  and  generaliza- 
tions; the  rest  he  declared  to  be  some  form  or  other 
of  "shop."  Yet  he  had  no  contempt  for  shop: 
only  his  individual  preferences  did  not  lead  him 
into  it.  Though  he  very  seldom  said  disagreeable 
things,  some  people  professed  themselves  "afraid 
of  him."  Only  people  at  the  two  extremes  of 
culture  and  opportunity  were  apt  to  be  attached 
to  him.  His  servants  and  the  poor  worshipped  him. 

An  exception  to  the  indifference  to  him  of  com- 
monplace people,  was  his  attractiveness  to  all  good 
women:  though  this  exception  is  but  provisional, 
for  he  declared  that  no  good  woman  is  common- 
place. 

As  this  story  is  apt  to  be  a  long  one,  and  must 
deal  with  many  of  the  faults  of  other  people,  there 
will  not  be  much  room  in  it  for  his.  He  had  out- 
grown many  of  them,  but  he  still 'had  his  human 
share.  I  do  not  think  he  can  be  the  hero  of  the 
tale,  because,  despite  his  faults,  he  had  grown  too 
deliberate,  too  consistent,  too  calm. 

Miss  Wahring,  fortunately,  was  not  kept  waiting 
for  this  description.  He  said  to  her: 

"  I  fear  Muriel  was  not  so  much  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  two  ladies  were  on  his  hands,  as  that  he 
wanted  to  appear  in  costume,  a  few  miles  off.  I 
trust,  however,  that  you  were  eventually  made 
comfortable  ?" 

"Perfectly!  Luxurious,  indeed.  Hasn't  mamma 
told  you  how  pleasantly  we  were  cared  for?" 

"Yes;  but  I  wanted  to  be  told  that  you  were 
pleased,  too." 


A  Man  of  Several  Periods.  27 

"We  were  delighted!  Such  a  place!  Why,  last 
night"  (and  she  had  a  little  feeling  as  if  she  were 
giving  him  a  confidence,  but  she  liked  to) — "last 
night  I  felt  as  if  I  were  transported  out  of  our 
commonplace  century  altogether." 

"Our  commonplace  century  is  good  enough  for 
me — to  work  in,"  he  added  with  a  smile.  "  And  as 
to  the  place,  perhaps  in  the  way  you  speak  of,  it's 
a  little  too  good.  A  French  chateau  with  a  French 
name  would  be  well  enough  if  we  had  stayed  in 
France,  but  I'm  an  American.  Yet  my  father 

built  it — and  there  are  associations."  And  his 
smile  faded,  but  into  something  more  beautiful. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE     FIRST     BOUT. 

ON  turning  toward  the  porch,  Nina  found  Mu- 
riel at  her  side.  He  reached  for  her  shawl,  para- 
sol, and  book,  saying : 

"Let  me  carry  them  up.  I  think  I  can  do  better 
when  not  in  disguise." 

" Good  morning"  said  the  girl  (it  was  three  in 
the  afternoon),  and  yielded  up  the  things.  "Does 
your  head  ache  ?" 

"  I  never  get  up  while  it  does,"  said  Muriel. 

"You  deserve  that  it  should,  for  your  double 
masquerade  last  night." 

"I  can't  see  any  connection  between  the  part  I 
played  with  you  and  your  mother"  (he  was  too  un- 
conventional to  say  "Mrs.  Wahring")  "and  head- 
ache." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  the  part  deserved  a  head- 
ache ?" 

"  Things  deserve  their  natural  consequences,  I 
suppose,"  said  the  young  man.  "  If  I  deserve  any 
punishment,  your  displeasure  and  hers  would  be 
the  natural  one.  I  hope  I  have  not  incurred  that." 

"  Not  very  seriously,  at  least  not  for  letting  her 
remain  deceived." 

"Well,  for  what  then?" 

"She   begged    your   pardon;    you   did   not   beg 

hers." 

28 


The  First  Bout.  29 

He  disregarded  the  point,  and  said: 
"Aren't    your    notions    of    punishment   a   little 
primitive?     You  want  to  sentence  me  to  a  head- 
ache for  lese  majesti." 

"What  does  that  outlandish  expression  mean  ?" 
"Why,  don't  you  know?"  and  his  habitual  feel- 
ing of  superiority  came  up,  comforting  him. 

"If  I  had,  I  wouldn't  have  asked  you,"  she  said 
simply,  and  he  had  a  dim  notion  that  confessed 
ignorance  was,  in  some  vague  way  that  he  did  not 
stop  to  examine,  not  so  terribly  inferior  to  vaunted 
knowledge.  He  answered: 

"  Why,  lese-majeste  means,  I  suppose,  lack  of  re- 
spect for  the  powers  that  be." 

"  So  I'm  one  of  the  powers  that  be,  am  I  ?" 
"Every  young  and  pretty  woman  is." 
"Thank  you.      How  about  my  mother?" 
"Well,  she  is  too,  I  suppose,  though  since  you 
have  claimed  part  of  the  injury,  I  didn't  think  of 
that." 

"Didn't  you?  Well,  it's  worth  thinking  of." 
She  made  the  boy  feel  uncomfortable  and  a  bit 
revengeful.  The  girl  was  very  pretty,  though,  and 
not  stupid;  and  he  was  glad  enough  to  keep  on 
fencing  with  her.  He  did  not  always  realize  when 
he  was  hit,  and  when  he  did,  if  he  could  get  in  a 
passable  stroke  in  return,  he  lost  all  consciousness 
of  his  weak  spot.  Hoping  to  win  yet,  he  began: 

"Why  did  you  want  to  give  me  a  headache  for 
what  you  seem  to  consider  a  failure  in  manners?" 
"To  punish  you,  of  course." 

"Upon  my  soul!  Why,  I  believe  you  would 
whip  a  child  for  stealing." 


30  The  First  Bout. 

"Of  course  I  would.  Do'you  think  I'd  spare 
the  rod  and  spoil  the  child  ?" 

"  Solomon  was  an  old  fool  !" 

"  I'd  be  obliged  if  you  wouldn't  speak  disre- 
spectfully of  Bible  characters  in  my  presence.  As 
you  are  so  much  wiser  than  Solomon,  what  would 
you  do  ?" 

"  I  should  be  sorry  if  a  few  thousand  years' 
more  experience  hadn't  made  me  wiser  than  Solo- 
mon. Why,  I'd  make  the  child  replace  the  stolen 
article  from  his  pocket-money,  of  course,  and  for  a 
time  I'd  treat  the  child  as  coldly  as  I  would  an 
older  criminal." 

"Suppose  the  child  didn't  care  for  your  punish- 
ment ?" 

"  Suppose  the  moon  to  be  made  of  green  cheese! 
But  even  if  the  child  were  such  a  lusus  naturce  as 
you're  making  out,  do  you  suppose  a  whipping 
would  make  any  difference  to  such  a  creature?" 

"  It  might.  But  I  wish  you'd  stop  talking  out- 
landish tongues  at  me." 

He  stared  at  her  a  second,  wondering  what  sort 
of  woman  this  could  be,  on  whom  his  profound 
learning  produced  no  effect.  Yet  he  did  not  find 
the  lack  of  appreciation  altogether  disagreeable, 
especially  as  she  seemed  interested  in  his  matter, 
if  not  in  his  manner.  Then  he  answered  her,  and 
after  a  few  similar  passages,  in  which  he  got  the 
better  of  her,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find  him 
interested  in  children  and  not  unintelligently, 
Nina  pondered  a  few  moments  and  then  asked 
suddenly : 

"  Where  did  you  get  all  these  notions  ?" 


The  First  Bout.  3 1 

"  Well,  I  have  thought  of  these  subjects  a  good 
deal." 

"  Where  did  you  get  all  these  notions  ?" 
"Why?     Do  you  think  they're  good  ?" 
"  I  think  they're  admirable.     I  never  thought  of 
them  before.     Where  did  you  get  them  ?" 

"  From  Spencer  and  Helen  Hunt,  I  suppose. 
I'm  rather  fond  of  that  sort  of  reading." 

"So,   after  all,   you've    been    drawing   on    your 
reading  rather  than  your  wit,  to  overwhelm  me  ?" 
"You  don't  seem  to  overwhelm  worth  a  cent." 
"  No,  I'm  not  apt  to.     Now  let  me  tell  you  that 
I've  found  what  you  have  been  pleased  to  say  to 
me,  very  sensible;  and  no  matter  where  you  got  it, 
you  have  it.     Nobody  ever  talked  to  me  in  that 
way  before.     Perhaps  I  shall  think  about  it.     Only 
I    don't   believe    I    think    much.     I'm    very   much 
obliged  to  you." 

Muriel  colored  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  bowed 
low.  He  had  never  felt  cheaper  in  his  life.  And 
it  would  have  puzzled  him,  philosopher  as  he  held 
himself,  to  exactly  define  the  reason  why. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN    AFTERNOON    DRIVE. 

CALMIRE  turned  from  the  chat  he  had  been 
having  with  Mrs.  Wahring,  and  said: 

"You  two  young  people  will  have  to  suspend 
quarreling  for  a  few  minutes.  The  band  plays  on 
Calmire  Green  to-night,  and  we're  going  to  start 
over  in  half  an  hour.  I  haven't  yet  been  there  since 
I  came  from  abroad.  We'll  dine  with  my  brother. 
All  this,  of  course,  subject  to  your  good  pleasure 
as  far  as  you  two  are  concerned.  Mrs.  Wahring 
and  I  have  agreed  upon  it  for  ourselves  already." 

"  Yes,  the  elders  always  decide  and  ask  our 
wishes  afterward,"  said  Muriel. 

"  I,  for  one,  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Nina. 

"  You'll  go,  Muriel  ?"  asked  Calmire. 

"  Certainly.  You've  telegraphed  Aunt  Amelia,  or 
shall  I  ?" 

"It's  done  already." 

And  they  separated  to  arrange  their  prelimi- 
naries. 

When  Mrs.  Wahring  and  Nina  were  secure  be- 
hind their  doors,  the  former  turned  half  confi- 
dentially to  her  daughter  and  said  : 

"Oh,  Nina  dear,  I've  almost  got  a  headache. 

32 


An  Afternoon  Drive.  33 

That  dreadful  young  man  spoiled  my  nap  by 
blowing  on  some  sort  of  a  horn." 

"  Why,  it  wasn't  he  who  was  playing  the  cornet 
so  beautifully,  was  it  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  was;  but  I  didn't  find  it  so  beau- 
tiful. I  wanted  to  get  to  sleep.  It's  no  proper 
instrument  to  play  in  the  house.  I  think  he's 
dreadful.  Isn't  he,  dear  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  mamma,  in  some  ways.  He  does 
seem  sometimes  to  think  of  nobody  but  himself. 
Yet  last  night,  despite  his  letting  you  remain  de- 
ceived, he  seemed  to  care  to  make  us  comfortable." 

And  a  moment  after  she  pondered:  "  It's  very 
odd  that  he  should  have  thought  so  much  about 
children." 

Muriel  reciprocated  these  unheard  compliments 
by  observing  to  his  uncle  as  they  wandered  off 
together:  • 

"  That  girl  you've  brought  here  is  the  sharpest- 
tongued  piece  I  ever  saw  !" 

"Yes?"  answered  Calmire.  "Is  that  the  best 
you  can  say  for  her  ?" 

"Well,  she's  about  like  the  rest  of  them,  she 
doesn't  seem  to  know  anything." 

"  Probably  she  doesn't,  and  yet  there  appear  to 
me  to  be  one  or  two  particulars  in  which  she's  not 
quite  '  like  the  rest  of  them.'  " 

"  She's  certainly  prettier  than  most  of  them." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  her  much  yet.  What  are 
you  driving  at  ?" 

"  She's  honest,"  said  Calmire. 

"  Any  fool  can  be  that,"  answered  his  nephew. 


34  An  Afternoon  Drive. 

"  You'll  find  your  definition  of  '  fool  '  varying  a 
good  deal  as  you  pass  through  life,"  observed  the 
elder. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Calmire  had  known 
his  nephew  to  say  so  much  that  was  uncompli- 
mentary to  an  attractive  woman.  But  it  was  the 
first  time  that  one  had  made  Muriel  feel  so  uncom- 
fortable: yet  he  by  no  means  wished  that  the  con- 
versation had  not  taken  place. 

At  half-past  four,  the  T-cart  with  a  pair  of  sturdy 
roans  was  at  the  door. 

"Well,  shall  we  risk  our  necks  with  you?  1 
suppose  you  like  to  drive?"  said  Calmire  to  Muriel. 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  it,  thank  you,"  answered 
Muriel. 

"  I  can,"  said  Nina. 

"  I  dare  say  you  both  can,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring, 
•'  but  I  think  I  would  feel  just  as  much  at  ease  if 
Mr.  Calmire  were  to  do  it." 

"  Then,  dear  madam  !"  said  he,  helping  her  to 
the  front  seat. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Calmire,  I  hoped  you  were  going  to 
take  me!"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  And  leave  your  poor  old  mother,"  bowing  to 
that  blooming  and  beautiful  matron,  "-to  be  talked 
to  death  by  that  young  chatterbox  ?  No,  you're 
young  and  strong.  Help  her  in,  Muriel  !" 

When  they  were  seated  and  off,  Nina  said  to 
Muriel: 

"  How  far  are  we  going?" 

"  Six  miles." 

"  Tell  me  about  the  place." 


An  Afternoon  Drive.  35 

"  Historically,  geographically,  economically,  or 
socially  ?" 

"  All  of  them;  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"  Well,  it's  the  village  where  our  mills  are— 
about  three  miles  up  a  branch.  There's  a  big 
water-power  there.  What  with  the  war  and  tariff- 
tinkering,  it  has  had  all  sorts  of  ups  and  downs. 
In  my  grandfather's  time  it  was  all  iron.  Some 
twenty  years  ago,  my  father  and  my  uncles  began 
on  wool.  They've  branched  out,  and  added 
several  things  since.  My  father  died  soon  aftei 
they  began.  My  mother  too.  So  I've  been  kick- 
ing around  ever  since,  always  tying  up  to  Uncle 
Grand  when  I  can  get  a  chance,  which  isn't  often, 
for  he's  been  abroad  most  of  my  vacations.  But 
I  forgot  that  you  didn't  ask  for  my  biography. 
Well,  when  father  died,  Uncle  Grand — " 

"Why  do  you  call  him  Grand?  Isn't  his  name 
Legrand  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"Oh,  I  got  into  it  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  no- 
body knowing  him  as  I  do,  would  ever  stop  it." 

"I  can  understand  that;  but  go  on  about  Cal- 
mire." 

"  Well,  when  my  father  died,  John  Calmire  told 
Uncle  Grand  that  he'd  got  to  manage  the  people, 
for  John  himself  could  manage  only  the  business." 

"  But  Mr.  Legrand  is  away  a  great  deal." 

"Yes,  John  couldn't  be  and  doesn't  care  to  be; 
Uncle  Grand  wasn't  either,  at  first.  But  now, 
whenever  he's  around  here,  he's  with  the  people  a 
great  deal.  They  worship  him.  He  has  made  the 
town  what  it  is.  It's  got  everything— library,  brass 
band,  singing  clubs,  gymnastic  clubs — you'll  see." 


36  An  Afternoon  Drive. 

"  Yes,  and  John's  treasurer  of  pretty  much  the 
whole  of  them,"  said  Calmire,  turning  round.  "  Be 
a  little  cautious  regarding  what  that  young  gen- 
tleman tells  you  about  my  doings,  Miss  Nina.  I've 
overheard  him  taking  my  name  in  vain  there." 

"  I  flatter  myself  you've  taught  me  to  tell  the 
truth,  sir,"  retorted  Muriel.  Then  he  resumed  to 
Nina  in  a  low  tone: 

"  He  likes  to  be  appreciated  just  as  well  as  any- 
body." 

"What  sort  of  a  man  is  your  uncle  John?" 
asked  Nina. 

"Well,  he  and  I  never  pulled  together  much; 
yet  he's  a  good  sort  of  fellow — a  great  business 
man,  perfect  gentleman — too  confoundedly  per- 
fect for  my  taste.  Honors  the  ground  that  one 
treads  on"  (in  a  low  tone  and  pointing  to  Cal- 
mire), "  but  never  said  so  to  a  living  being,  unless 
to  his  quiet  little  wife  who  never  tells  anything. 
To  his  brother's  face,  he  keeps  making  fun  of  his 
moonshiny  notions.  Yet  he  runs  the  factories  and 
the  town  on  them,  at  least  on  those  he  keeps. 
He  brushes  half  aside,  and  very  properly,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Muriel's  little  disquisitions  had  not  proceeded 
uninterruptedly,  but  were  interspersed  with  many 
an  interjection  of  "  Hello,  Jimmy!"  "  Howdy,  Old 
Man  ?"  "  Mornin',  Granny,"  and  other  equally  grace- 
ful and  conventional  greetings,  scattered  among 
all  the  younger  and  poorer  people  met  by  the 
roadside.  Calmire  raised  his  hat  to  all  the  women 
whom  he  knew,  while  to  the  poorer  ones  Muriel 


An  Afternoon  Drive.  37 

was  more  apt  to  call  out  and  wave  his  hand.  The 
children  invariably  grinned  as  he  went  by. 

At  the  town  where  the  tributary  joined  the  great 
river,  they  passed  a  beautiful  new  church,  and  Cal- 
mire  said  : 

"Why,  I  didn't  expect  to  see  this  finished  al- 
ready !  There's  some  salvation  in  such  architec- 
ture." 

"Fearful  waste  of  money!"  said  Muriel.  "Why 
didn't  they  put  it  into  an  Art  Museum  or  a  Lec- 
ture Hall?" 

"Because  the  people  would  not  use  them  as 
much,  as  they  have  proved  by  putting  their  money 
here,"  said  Calmire.  "  You  people  who  are  im- 
patient with  the  churches  are  some  generations 
before  your  time." 

When,  after  a  short  hour,  they  got  into  Calmire, 
they  created  quite  a  sensation.  It  was  the  first  time 
the  town's  sponsor  had  been  there  for  two  years, 
and  many  a  hat  was  waved  with  a  flourish,  and 
even  an  occasional  handkerchief  was  fluttered  from 
a  window. 

Twice  Calmire  pulled  up,  as  some  special  friends 
were  on  the  sidewalk.  But  as  a  knot  of  people 
gathered  each  time,  he  said,  "We  won't  stop  any 
more,"  and  contented  himself  with  an  occasional 
extra  wave  of  the  hand.  Once  or  twice,  with 
sportive  gallantry,  he  kissed  his  hand  to  ladies 
who  were  evidently  old  friends. 

"Why,  it's  a  regular  triumph!"  said  Nina,  as 
they  went  bowling  along  amid  these  salutations. 

"You  bet  the  dear  old  boy  enjoys  it!"  said  Mu- 
riel, in  a  tone  for  her  alone,  his  eyes  sparkling. 


3 8  An  Afternoon  Drive. 

Yet  despite  these  sparkling  eyes,  Nina  had  for 
a  moment  one  of  those  strange  feelings  which 
women  know,  that  there  was  some  uneasiness  or 
anxiety  in  Muriel.  The  impression  soon  passed. 
She  was  at  the  careless  age,  and  so  was  he. 

A  few  minutes  later  Nina  exclaimed: 

"  Who  was  that  lovely  woman  ?" 

"  Where  ?"  asked  Muriel.     "  I  didn't  see  any." 

"At  that  brown  house  on  my  side  just  back 
there.  She  came  running  to  the  door  as  we 
passed.  She's  the  loveliest  woman  I  ever  saw." 

"That's  John  Baldwin's  house,"  said  Muriel. 
"They  don't  keep  any  lovely  women  there." 

"  Perhaps  she  was  a  visitor,"  said  Nina.  "  She 
had  her  hat  and  things  on." 

"  What  did  she  look  like  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"A  queen!  Not  an  empress,  because  empresses 
are  cold  and  hard.  This  one — " 

But  a  burst  of  laughter  from  Muriel  interrupted 
her,  and  after  a  moment  she  joined  in  it. 

"  Well,  3'ou  know,"  she  said  after  they  had  quieted 
down,  "  that's  the  way  I  always  think  of  them.  An 
empress  is  a  great  selfish,  masculine  thing  like 
Catharine  or  Irene;  but  a  queen  now — well,  a 
queen  is  tall  too,  but  she  is  sweet  and  gracious 
and  lovely,  just  like  that  one  back  there." 

"  Guess  it  must  have  been  Mary,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Who's  Mary  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  just  Mary.  Had  she  dark  hair  and  a 
low  forehead  over  which  it  rippled  a  little,  and 
oh!  such  a  nose  and  mouth  ?" 

"  How  could  I  see  all  that  ?"  answered  Nina. 
"  Her  hair  was  dark,  and,  yes,  1  think  her  forehead 


An  Afternoon  Drive.  39 

must  have  been  rather  low,  and  she  was  so  grace- 
ful although  she  ran  to  the  door." 

"It  must  have  been  Mary,"  said  Muriel;  "she 
must  have  been  calling  there." 

"Well,  tell  me  about  her,"  exclaimed  Nina. 
"  She  doesn't  live  in  this  little  town  ?" 

"Yes,  she  does,"  said  Muriel;  and  after  a  mo- 
ment he  added,  in  a  tone  that  was  almost  reveren- 
tial: "She  pervades  it  like  music.  But,"  and  his 
tones  grew  hard,  "  it's  music  in  a  minor  key.  She's 
religion's  perfect  work  here." 

Nina  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  puz- 
zled, and  then  said,  with  a  genial  little  laugh: 
"  Well,  the  town  contains  at  least  two  rather  un- 
usual people." 

"  Who,  besides  her  ?" 

"  You.  I  can't  make  you  out  at  all.  Sometimes 
you  make  me  think  you're  a —  Well,  I  won't  tell 
you  what.  And  then  you  make  me  think  you're 
a —  Well,  I  won't  tell  you  that  either." 

"That  describes  me  exactly,"  said  Muriel. 
"  You're  a  marvel  of  penetration.  But  here  we 
are  at  John's." 

And  they  drew  up  toward  the  sidewalk. 

"  Why,  is  that  the  way  you  always  speak  of  your 
uncle  ?"  asked  Nina 

"Yes,  of  this  one." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  TOWN  OUT  OF  THE  BEATEN  PATH. 

JOHN  CALMIRE'S  house  was  the  typical  square 
stone  residence  of  the  northern  village  magnate, 
ample  in  its  proportions  and  surroundings,  a  little 
peculiar,  perhaps,  in  the  absence  of  bizarre  orna- 
mentation, without  and  within,  though  everything 
was  cheerful  and  in  good  taste. 

When  they  drew  up  before  it,  Muriel  jumped 
into  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  without  thinking 
of  resting  his  foot  on  step  or  wheel.  Half  a 
dozen  children  bobbed  up,  shouting,  from  the  high 
grass  beside  the  lawn,  and  soon  got  themselves 
tangled  up  among  Muriel's  arms  and  legs.  The 
master  and  mistress  of  the  house  came  down  the 
steps,  he  a  little  sandy-colored  man,  gentleman  all 
over,  leading  out  the  little  dark  woman,  despite 
their  cordial  haste,  as  if  she  were  an  empress. 

Mrs.  John,  meeting  Muriel  first,  did  not  reflect 
upon  the  ladies  waiting, but  put  both  arms  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  twice.  His  mother  had 
been  her  elder  sister,  so  he  was  her  own  nephew 
as  well  as  John's,  and  she  loved  him  dearly. 
Naturally  she  was  alive  to  all  his  good  qualities, 
and  attributed  his  bad  ones  to  the  fate  which  had 
early  deprived  him  of  his  mother,  and  her  of  her 

40 


A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path.          41 

idolized  sister.  This  sister  she  was  constantly 
seeing  and  worshiping  in  Muriel.  Her  adoration 
had  developed  not  a  little  his  native  blindness  to 
his  own  mistakes  and  shortcomings.  The  boy  loved 
her  in  a  boy's  ungrateful  way,  realizing  more  her 
lack  of  intellectual  pyrotechnics  than  her  wealth 
of  sympathy  and  (except  regarding  him)  good  sense. 

"  Calmire,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said  John, 
wringing  his  brother's  hand,  even  before  he  no- 
ticed the  ladies — a  trifling  oversight  that  in  John 
Calmire  indicated  more  feeling  than  shouts  of  wel- 
come and  lusty  embraces  would  have  done  in  most 
men. 

"Are  you  all  right,  old  man?"  queried  Calmire, 
taking  his  brother's  hand  in  both  his  own.  Then 
he  flung  his  arm  around  his  sister-in-law's  neck 
and  kissed  her  as  if  he  liked  it,  which  showed  ex- 
cellent taste  and  was  cordially  reciprocated. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Wahring,"  said  John.  "Pardon  my 
leaving  you  till  the  second  :  it's  a  good  while  since 
I  saw  Calmire."  He  always  called  his  older  brother 
by  the  family  name,  and  people  intimate  with  them 
sometimes  followed  his  fashion. 

"Why,  young  lady,"  John  continued,  turning  to 
Nina,  "it's  hardly  fair  to  take  me  so  by  surprise. 
You  surely  ought  to  be  a  little  girl  yet." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  think  so  when  we  know  each 
other  better,"  she  answered,  shaking  hands  cordially. 

The  ladies  being  helped  out,  satisfactorily  kissed 
by  Mrs.  Calmire,  and  ushered  into  the  house,  all 
amid  the  usual  pleasant  little  confusions,  John 
turned  to  Muriel,  who  was  last  but  himself  on  the 
piazza,  pretended  to  raise  his  hat,  though  he  had 


42  A    Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path. 

none  on,  motioned  with  the  other  hand  toward  the 
door,  and  said  with  mock  ceremony: 

"  Pray  honor  my  poor  house." 

Muriel  retorted:  "Sir,  to  precede  a  gentleman 
of  your  age  and  distinguished  merits — 

"Go  in,  you  cub!"  commanded  John  with  a 
push.  The  two  did  not  like  each  other  and  they 
did  like  each  other.  So,  for  safety's  sake,  they 
always  began  with  their  weapons  covered  with  a 
double  thickness  of  burlesque  conventionality. 

"Where's  the  baby?"  was  Muriel's  prompt  ques- 
tion, and  the  nurse,  appearing  in  a  few  minutes, 
delivered  it  over  to  him  as  a  matter  of  course, 
while  Mrs.  Wahring  and  her  daughter  laughed  at 
seeing  the  impetuous  young  man  handle  it  as  ten- 
derly and  skilfully  as  a  woman. 

"Why,"  said  Mrs.  John,  "he  actually  said  he 
wanted  to  take  the  last  one  to  college  with  him." 

And  the  Wahrings  found  the  young  man  more 
perplexing  than  ever. 

Mrs.  Calmire  took  her  old  friend  Mrs.  Wahring, 
to  her  own  room,  and  her  oldest  girl,  Genevieve, 
captured  Nina.  After  a  little  talk  about  the 
children  and  some  elder  friends,  Mrs.  John  asked: 

"And  how  do  you  find  Calmire?" 

"  Beautiful,  so  far  as  I've  seen  it.  Everything 
looks  so  trim." 

"  Oh  no:  I  mean  brother  Legrand  ?" 

"He  seems  very  well." 

"  Yet  he  has  suffered  terribly.  He's  a  philosopher, 
though,  and  John  believes  he'll  marry  again  in 
time,  if  he  finds  the  right  woman,  and  that  will 
be  easy  because  he  would  probably  prefer  that  she 


A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path,  43 

should  be  poor.  John  is  always  making  fun  of  his 
contempt  for  policy  in  such  matters." 

"  I  know  a  girl  who's  not  poor,"  said  Mrs.  Wahr- 
ing,  "  whom  I'd  like  to  see  safe  in  his  hands." 

Mrs.  Calmire  looked  at  her  hard,  and  then  burst 
out:  "What,  Hilda  Wahring!  You  old  Lady  Kew! 
Make  her  the  second  wife  of  a  man  old  enough  to 
be  her  grandfather!" 

"  Such  men  are  never  old.  When  they  get 
ready,  they  die,  but  that's  all.  Calmire  is  the 
strongest  man  in  this  house  to-day.  And  I've 
seen  enough  of  young  husbands." 

"You  ungrateful  thing!  Hadn't  you  a  young 
husband?  Hadn't  I  ?  And  aren't  we  both  happy 
women — and  healthy  ones  too?" 

"  You  have  lived  in  the  country,  and  the  Lord 
sent  me  but  one  child,  and  we  are  of  an  earlier 
generation.  In  this  day  of  nervous  strain,  the 
younger  women  require  more  care  than  any  boy 
will  give  them." 

"  Nina  is  not  one  of  that  kind.  She  can  take 
care  of  herself.  And  she  has  had  more  air  and 
exercise  than  either  of  us  ever  had.  Lawn-tennis 
was  not  of  our  day;  neither  were  the  Adirondacks 
and  Mount  Desert." 

"  Well,  dear,  with  Calmire  I  know  she  would  have 
twenty  years  of  happiness  and  probably  ten  years 
more  of  peace.  After  him,  she  would  have  her 
grown  children  and  her  grandchildren.  With  a 
boy  it's  all  chance  whether  she  has  more  than  a 
year  of  anything." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  love  and  bully  a  man  as  I  love 
and  bully  my  John,  and  run  all  the  chances,  than 


44  A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path. 

be  safe  as  half  wife,  half  daughter,  with  the  next 
best  man  in  the  world." 

"John  is  an  unusual  man,  my  dear;  he  was  al- 
ways careful  and  patient." 

"I'd  have  loved  him  the  same  if  he'd  been 
careless  and  impetuous." 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  could  have  loved  somebody 
else.  Do  you  believe  any  woman  could  love  him 
more  than  she  could  love  his  brother,  other  things 
even  ?" 

"  I  believe  that  a  girl  like  Nina,  to  whom  a  man 
like  Calmire  is  an  entire  novelty,  and  whose  mind 
would  be  first  awakened  by  him,  could  love  him 
madly;  but  it  would  be  madness  all  the  same,  as  a 
few  years  would  show." 

"  No,  it   wouldn't.     He  could  hold  her  always." 

"  Yes,  because  she's  a  good  and  brave  girl,"  said 
deep  little  Mrs.  John;  "but  that's  no  reason  her 
goodness  and  bravery  should  be  abused.  But  tell 
me,  have  you  opened  up  your  horrid  scheme  to 
Calmire?" 

"  No,  I  have  no  scheme." 

"  Tell  me!  As  soon  as  a  woman  like  you  has  a 
wish,  she  has  a  scheme.  But  as  you've  been  foolish 
enough  to  have  such  a  wish,  I'm  surprised  you 
had  sense  enough  to  keep  it  to  yourself." 

"  I'm  too  old  a  fox,  my  dear." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  you  don't  look  it.  You 
make  me  hate  you,"  and  she  rose  and  kissed  the 
blooming  cheek. 

Of  course  Mrs.  John  had  a  double  reason  for  dis- 
approving Mrs.  Wahring's  idea;  for  she  never  saw 
a  girl  whom  she  approved  (and  she  saw  very  few 


A   Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path.           45 

such)  without  thinking:  "  She'd  make  a  good  wife 
for  Muriel,  and  the  poor  boy  must  have  one  as 
soon  as  possible." 

As  the  party  were  seated  at  table,  Mrs.  Wahring 
opened  the  conversation  with: 

"  Well!  you're  very  civilized  country-folks.  How 
long  has  dressing  for  dinner  been  the  fashion  in 
American  manufacturing  towns?  I  should  think 
the  people  would  stone  you." 

"Well,"  answered  John,  laughingly,  "it  really 
did  arise  to  the  dignity  of  a  serious  question  when 
we  concluded  to  swarm  over  here  from  Fleuve- 
mont.  I  didn't  think  of  doing  it.  But  Calmire 
said  that  if  we  were  going  to  live  here  the  whole 
year  and  not  relapse  into  barbarism  and  bring  our 
children  up  in  it,  we'd  got  to  stick  to  all  the  con- 
ventionalities we  could." 

"  But  it  did  stir  up  a  little  democratic  ire  at  first, 
didn't  it?"  asked  Muriel.  "Seems  to  me  I  heard 
something  said  about  it  when  I  was  a  youngster." 

"  When  you  were  a  youngster  !"  observed  John. 
"  No,  even  at  that  remote  period,  people  at  least 
kept  quiet  about  it." 

"  Don't  some  of  them  ape  it  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"Well,  it's  odd,"  said  Calmire.  "The  first  time 
Courtenay's  singing  club  gave  a  concert,  they  all 
appeared  in  white  ties.  There  was  a  variety  of 
patterns  in  the  coats,  not  an  evening  coat  among 
them,  I  think,  but  all  were  dark." 

"And  you  can't  imagine  that  a  set  of  factory 
hands  would  look  so  well,"  said  Mrs.  John. 

"Do  you  have  any  trouble  here  with  drunk- 
enness?" inquired  Nina,  peering  into  her  glasses. 


46  A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path. 

"  I'm  told  that  it's  apt  to  be  the  great  curse  of  such 
places." 

"Oh,  we  run  opposition  to  the  rum-shops,"  said 
Mrs.  John.  "  All  sorts  of  refreshments  can  be  had 
in  the  library  and  gymnasium  buildings.  There's 
only  one  rum-shop  left  now,  besides  ours." 

"Do  you  supply  the  same  things  the  rum-shops 
do?" 

"The  people  supply  themselves,"  Calmire  inter- 
rupted. "  It's  just  like  any  other  club." 

"But,"  persisted  Mrs.  Wahring,  "do  they  have 
what  gentlemen's  clubs  do?" 

"  Certainly — the  less  expensive  things.  But  most 
of  our  people  use  only  the  lighter  drinks:  they  are 
cheaper,  and  the  women  set  public  opinion  that 
way." 

"Well,  I'm  in  favor  of  laws  to  keep  the  dram- 
shops out  anyhow." 

"I'm  in  favor  of  limiting  them,"  said  Calmire, 
"but  I  doubt  the  justice  of  cutting  off  all  my 
chance  to  get  a  drink  because  my  neighbor  abuses 
his.  And  anyhow  Nature  is  killing  off  the  drunk- 
ards wherever  she  is  not  interfered  with." 

"Oh,  that's  too  terrible!"  cried  Nina.  "You 
don't  believe  in  letting  such  things  be?" 

"Do  I  believe  in  letting  lightning-strokes  and 
war  and  pestilence  be?  Certainly  not,  if  we  can 
find  any  remedy  that  is  not  worse  than  the  trouble. 
But  paternal  government  destroys  the  people's 
capacity  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  that's  of 
more  value  than  all  the  drunkards  in  the  com- 
munity." 

"And     water's    such    poor    stuff,"    interrupted 


A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path.  47 

Muriel.     "Will    nourish    nothing    but    the    lowest 
forms  of  life." 

"  The  lowest  creatures  only  absorb  it  by  external 
contact,"  quietly  observed  Calmire.  "  Do  you  ob- 
ject to  that  relation  to  it  ?" 

Muriel  felt  disposed  to  change  the  subject.  The 
accidental  shoving  aside  of  the  screen  before  the 
pantry-door  gave  him  a  chance: 

"  Uncle  Grand,  there's  one  argument  for  total 
abstinence  that  you've  not  mentioned." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  horrible  faces  people  make  when  they 
draw  corks." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Nina,"  said  Calmire,  "  there's  some- 
thing apt  to  happen  among  us,  you  see,  which 
you're  more  in  danger  of  getting  tired  of  than  of 
talk  about  nature's  hard  remedies." 

Nina,  who  was  ready  for  a  change  in  the  tone  of 
the  conversation,  laughed  with  both  speakers  and 
said: 

"  I'm  not  afraid.     Let's  have  a  little  frivolity." 

"  Many  a  good  fellow  has  died  from  the  want  of 
it,"  remarked  Calmire. 

"I  hate  flippancy,"  said  Muriel  with  burlesque 
gravity. 

"Yes,  youth  hates  competition,"  observed  John. 

"  Please  don't  anybody  say  anything  about  Shak- 
spere's  and  Hardy's  clowns,"  interposed  Muriel. 

"  I  knew  you  would,"  said  John. 

"  I'm  always  safe  for  a  compliment  from  you.  Did 
you  ever  know  a  fellow  who  couldn't  make  a  fool  of 
himself  to  amount  to  anything  ?"  continued  Muriel. 

"I  never  knew  a  fellow  to  amount  to  anything 


48  A  Town  out   of  the  Beaten  Path. 

unless  he  knew  when  to  make  a  fool  of  himself," 
answered  John. 

The  little  ripple  of  nonsense  had  spent  itself  and 
one  of  those  silences  of  which  all  are  conscious, 
followed.  Nina  ended  it  with: 

"  A  queer  time  for  an  angel  to  pass  !" 

This  led  Mrs.  Wahring  to  say  to  John: 

"  I  hope  you  are  more  religious  here  than  you 
used  to  be." 

"  More  churchy,  you  mean  ?"  asked  John. 

"I  mean  more  given  to  religious  observances. 
You  were  no  better  than  heathen  savages,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Wahring,  forgetting  in  her  enthu- 
siasm, her  interest  in  Nina's  favorable  opinion  of 
Calmire.  "  Mr.  Calmire  never  went  to  church,  and 
Mr.  John  didn't  use  to  go  half  the  time.  Do  you 
still  go,  Amelia  ?" 

"Oh,  don't  let's  talk  a.bout  that,"  said  Calmire, 
"we'll  get  to  quarreling." 

"  I  wish  you  would  talk  about  it,"  said  Nina. 
"This  seems  the  queerest  place  I  ever  heard  of, 
and  you  are  certainly  the  queerest  lot  of  people 
I  ever  saw,  and — "  here  she  became  conscious  that 
her  candor  had  led  her  a  little  farther  than,  girl  as 
she  was,  she  liked.  She  blushed  and  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  smiled  and  continued:  "And  I'm 
not  sure  I  hate  you  as  much  as  I  ought,  so  I  want 
to  know  the  worst  about  you." 

"  All  the  stupid  folks  in  town  go,"  broke  in  Muriel. 

"I  wonder,"  quietly  observed  John,  "if  some 
people  are  not  as  intolerant  about  other  people 
going  to  church,  as  other  people  are  about  some 
people  staying  at  home." 


A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path.  49 

"  I'm  not  quite  so  absurd  as  you're  trying  to 
make  out,"  said  Muriel.  "  Intolerance  never 
forced  anybody  to  stay  away,  and  it  has  forced 
many  to  go.  As  to  the  stupidity — there's  Gene- 
vieve,  for  instance"  (who  still  took  her  evening  meal 
apart  with  the  children,  when  company  dined  at 
the  house):  "  I'll  admit  (not  merely  for  the  sake  of 
argument  either)  that  she's  the  loveliest  child  that 
ever  lived;  but  she's  always  the  last  to  see  through 
a  thing,  and  can't  take  a  joke  to  save  her.  She's 
the  churchiest  of  the  lot." 

"  And  you  know  perfectly  well,"  Calmire  broke 
in,  "that  she's  a  born  artist,  musician,  and  actress 
— even  of  parts  with  jokes  in  them,  and  the  most 
affectionate  child  of  them  all.  In  sympathies,  and 
tastes  too,  she  is  head  and  shoulders  above  any  of 
them,  though  her  analytical  powers  may  not  be 
as  quick.  But  you're  simply  mad  over  analytical 
power.  All  the  boys  are  nowadays.  I  may  as  well 
own,  though,  that  I  was,  myself,  once."  Then  he 
added  in  a  lower  tone:  "  It  cost  me  something  to 
get  over  it,  and  it  will  cost  you  something,  too, 
before  you  get  through." 

Mrs.  John  felt  moved  to  say:  "Don't  think  our 
men  are  out  of  sympathy  with  the  church.  They 
do  their  share  for  it." 

"But  I  don't  know  that  we  deserve  any  credit 
for  that,"  said  Calmire.  "  You  know  that,  as 
Emerson  said,  if  the  good  people  were  to  fail  in 
running  it,  the  capitalists  would  have  to,  to  keep 
thievery  down."  Then  he  added:  "  But  don't  let's 
argue,  Cousin  Hilda.  A  great  many  of  our  people 
go  to  church  in  the  morning,  and  when  they  are 


50  A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path. 

out  of  church  I  think  they  spend  the  day  more  as 
Jesus  Christ  and  his  disciples  did,  than  any  Ameri- 
can people  I  know.  I  never  heard  that  Christ  was 
very  rigorous  in  his  attendance  at  the  temple.  In 
fact,  I  have  the  impression  that,  as  a  rule,  he  was 
rather  hard  on  the  priests.  I  suspect  he  was  re- 
garded as  a  good  deal  of  an  infidel  in  his  day." 

"  Do  you  keep  the  library  open  on  Sundays  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  Most  certainly!  And  the  club  too.  That's  the 
only  chance  the  people  have  at  them  by  daylight. 
There  Courtenay  had  to  yield." 

"Who's  Courtenay?"  asked  Nina. 

"A  saint!"  burst  in  Muriel.  "But  I  don't  half 
like  saints." 

This  later  ejaculation  seemed  to  divert  Muriel's 
intention  of  enlightening  her,  if  he  had  had  any. 
After  a  moment  John  said: 

"I  beg  pardon,  Muriel,  but  T  didn't  under- 
stand Miss  Wahring  to  ask  our  opinion  of  saints, 
but  to  inquire  who  Mr.  Courtenay  is.  He's  the 
rector." 

"That  means  Episcopal,  doesn't  it?"  asked 
Nina. 

"  Yes,  my  little  Presbyterian,"  interrupted  Cai- 
rn ire. 

"  Oh,  I  generally  go  to  the  Episcopal  church." 

"  Music,  and  painting,  and  lights  ?"  asked  Cai- 
rn ire. 

"  Yes,  and  great  deep  shadows  too,"  she  said. 

Muriel's  face  flashed  and  he  turned  and  looked 
at  her.  She  did  not  notice  him,  but  went  on: 

"Tell  me  about  Mr.  Courtenay." 


A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path.  5 1 

"He's  a  noble  fellow,"  said  Calmire. 

"Then  why  in  the  world  don't  you  go  to  hear 
him  preach  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"He'd  a  mighty  sight  better  come  and  hear 
Uncle  Grand  preach!"  broke  in  Muriel  again. 

"  Well,  boy,  you  are  irrepressible,"  exclaimed 
Calmire.  "  It's  not  a  great  many  years  since  your 
Aunt  Amelia  would  have  sent  you  to  bed  for  that." 

"  Well,  if  she'll  let  me  sit  up  a  little  longer  now, 
I'll  try  to  be  good.  Go  ahead  ;  I  won't  interrupt 
till  the  next  time."  * 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  hear  Mr.  Courtenay 
preach?"  Mrs.  Wahring  again  asked  Calmire. 

"It  wouldn't  be  honest,"  he  answered.  "I 
should  be  held  to  indorse  too  much  that  I  do  not. 
Besides,  I  don't  get  any  too  much  time  at  books  to 
absorb  the  wisdom  of  even  greater  men  than  my 
friend  Courtenay." 

"  But  how  can  you  work  together  if  you  don't 
agree?"  asked  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Calmire,  "  you 
know  Courtenay  is  very  tolerant." 

"  His  sister  made  him  that,"  again  interjected 
Muriel. 

"And  then,"  continued  Calmire,  "we  don't  at- 
tempt working  together  in  things  where  he  has 
been  trained  to  believe  that  his  office  gives  him 
the  right  of  control.  We  do  very  well  in  others 
— in  the  library,  the  club,  the  hospital,  or  'home' 
as  we  call  it,  and  such  of  his  private  charities  as 
he  allows  us  the  honor  of  helping  in." 

"But,"  persisted  Mrs.  Wahring,  "I  don't  see  but 
what  you  run  the  church  '  opposition  '  (as  Amelia 


52  A  Town  out  of  the  Beaten  Path. 

puts  it)  with  the  club  and  the  library,  as  much  as 
you  do  the  rum-shops." 

"We  have  no  distinct  desire  to,"  said  Calmire. 
"  But  if  the  church  can't  stand  that  sort  of  oppo- 
sition, so  much  the  worse  for  the  church.  1  think 
it  can,  as  long  as  it  needs  to." 

"  Well,  I  hate  to  see  anything  interfering  with  it 
at  all,"  said  Nina. 

"  But  the  best  men  are  not  paying  any  attention 
to  it,"  said  Muriel.  "  Hardly  any  of  those  intellec- 
tual swells  I  used  to  see  over  at  Fleuvemont  ever 
went — unless  to  keep  the  peace  with  their  wives," 
he  added  as  he  watched  Nina's  astonished  face. 

"  But  this  is  all  new  to  me,"  said  Nina,  flushing 
slightly;  "I  can  hardly  suppose  it  to  be  correct. 
But  if  it  is,  what's  the  reason  ?" 

"  One  is,"  answered  Calmire,  "  that  the  ministry 
doesn't  begin  to  absorb  the  talent  it  used  to, 
partly  because  so  many  other  things  are  made 
more  attractive,  but  mainly  because  fewer  able 
young  men  subscribe  to  the  views  of  Christianity 
put  forward  by  the  churches." 

"That  they  don't !"  exclaimed  Muriel. 

"But  some  of  them  do.  There's  Mr. ,  who 

laid  down  his  college  professorship  to  preach," 
said  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  And  there's  Mr. ,  certainly  as  able  a  man, 

who  laid  down  his  pastorate  to  teach,  and 

too,  now  a  professor  in  the  same  university,  did 
the  same  thing,"  answered  Muriel. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE    UNJUST    AND    THE    JUST. 

"  BUT  all  this  doesn't  prove  anything  against  the 
truth  of  Christianity,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  There's  no  danger  that  anything  true  in  Chris- 
tianity is  going  to  be  disproved,"  observed  Calmire. 

"  But  don't  shirk  the  question,  Uncle  Grand," 
said  Muriel.  "To  these  ladies,  Christianity  and 
the  church  mean  precisely  the  same  thing." 

"  Well.  They  needn't  have  their  dinner  spoiled 
by  anybody  trying  to  convince  them  otherwise." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  about  it,"  said  Nina,  turn- 
ing a  face  of  bright  expectancy  to  Calmire  and 
then  to  Muriel.  "  This  is  all  very  strange  to  me, 
and  I'm  interested." 

"  Oh  well,  then,"  said  Calmire,  smiling  on  her, 
"  to  put  it  in  an  extreme  way,  are  you  willing  to 
accept  as  Christianity,  the  indulgences,  masses  for 
the  dead,  Mariolatry,  prayer  to  saints,  worship  of 
relics,  Bambino  miracles  and  all  the  other  observ- 
ances that  sadden  one  in  Rome?" 

"  No,  of  course  I  don't  accept  it,"  answered 
Nina. 

"  Yet,"  said  Calmire,  "all  of  that  was  held  to  be 
Christianity  by  everybody  five  hundred  years  ago. 
Now  have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  that  if  you 
were  living  five  hundred  years  hence,  you  would 
fully  endorse  the  Christianity  of  the  present?" 

"  But — I  never  thought  of  it  that  way  before." 


54  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realize."  said  Muriel,  "that 
the  Church  preaches  a  lot  of  stuff  that's  not  true, 
and  stands  in  the  way  of  others  preaching  what  is." 

"And  you  don't  seem  to  realize,"  broke  in  his 
uncle  John,  "  that  it  preaches  a  lot  more  that  is 
true,  and  stands  in  the  way  of  many  others  preach- 
ing what  is  not." 

"As  how?"  asked  Muriel. 

"Well,  you  believe  in  the  morality  of  Chris- 
tianity, don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  in  a  general  way,  though  it's  rather  milk 
and  water;  and  if  anybody  can  make  the  parable  of 
the  unjust  steward  anything  but  approval  of  con- 
spiracy to  defraud,  he  can  do  more  than  I  can." 

"  This  is  getting  a  little  too  far,"  said  Mrs. 
Wahring,  and  made  a  move  as  if  to  rise  from  the 
table. 

Calmire  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  hers,  and 
said: 

"It  looks  a  little,  Muriel,  as  if  it  were  impracti- 
cable to  carry  on  this  discussion  without  hurting 
somebody's  feelings." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Wahring,"  said  Muriel,  "  I  beg  ten 
thousand  pardons.  I  really  didn't  think.  I — "  and 
the  fellow  evidently  was  confused  and  sorry. 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  intended  to  pain  us," 
said  Mrs.  Wahring;  "  but  as  the  subject  is  such  a 
dangerous  one,  hadn't  we  better  change  it?" 

"Not  yet,  please,"  said  Nina;  "I  didn't  enjoy 
Mr.  Muriel's  last  remarks  either,  but  what  the  gen- 
tlemen are  saying  is  so  strange  that  I'd  like  to 
understand  more  about  it." 

"  Well,  if  you  ladies  will  forgive  me,"  said  Mu- 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  5  5 

rie!.  "  I'll  try  to  put  my  idea  in  a  less  disagree- 
able way.  Now,  Mrs.  Wahring,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I've  heard  something  about  a  heroic  young 
lady  in  New  Yoric  who,  some  twenty  years  ago, 
sent  her  young  husband  off  to  the  civil  war  as  a 
private,  and  by  virtue  of  the  blood  of  his  grand- 
father, he  rose  to  be  General  Wahring." 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  '•  but,  Mr.  Muriel,  the 
other  side  drew  the  sword  first,  and  you  certainly 
would  not  make  light  of  such  a  virtue  as  patriotism 
— or  such  a  wrong  as  the  slavery  our  side  fought  ?" 

"  And  therefore,  dear  madam,  I  have  all  the 
more  hope  of  your  pardon  for  speaking  lightly  of  a 
system  whose  founder  didn't  happen  to  mention  the 
one,  or  condemn  the  other." 

"Why!"  she  exclaimed,  turning  toward  Calmire. 

"  He's  right,"  quietly  remarked  that  gentleman. 

"And  yet,"  said  Muriel,  "among  the  good 
things  which  I  suppose  Uncle  Grand  urges  that 
the  churches  do  sometimes  teach,  is  that  same 
virtue  of  patriotism,  although  Christ  didn't  give 
any  encouragement  for  their  doing  so." 

There  was  a  few  moments'  pause — a  thing  Mu- 
riel never  could  endure.  He  broke  it  with: 

"And  while  we're  about  it,  Uncle  Grand,  we 
may  just  as  well  note  the  historic  facts  that  the 
growth  of  that  non-resistent  creed  rotted  out  the 
valor  of  Rome,  and  made  the  barbarians'  destruc- 
tion of  that  civilization  possible.  Next,  Chris- 
tianity's exaltation  of  shiftlessness  into  a  virtue 
filled  Europe  with  beggary  for  a  thousand  years, 
ai*ti  shut  up  in  the  convents  the  men  wno  ought  to 
have  redeemed  their  countries." 


56  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

"You  got  most  of  that,"  said  Caltnire,  "from 
Heine — a  Jew  who  hated  Christianity,  a  profligate 
who  hated  restraint,  and,  as  it  happened,  probably 
the  greatest  satirist  that  ever  lived,  who  naturally 
made  the  most  of  every  chance  to  satirize.  But 
you  and  Heine  ignore  the  facts  that  most  of  the 
barbarians  who  overran  Rome  claimed  to  be  Chris- 
tians, and  that  many  Christians  in  Rome  desired 
the  destruction  of  the  empire,  to  bring  on  the 
'  kingdom  of  Christ '  that  they  had  been  expecting 
ever  since  his  day." 

"  Well,"  rejoined  Muriel, "  either  way, Christianity 
destroyed  Rome,  and  made  Europe  a  beggar's  hospi- 
tal andapandemonium  for  nearly  a  thousand  years." 

"I  don't  deny  that  Christianity  had  a  share  in 
all  that,  but  you  exaggerate.  Rome  would  have 
fallen  without  Christianity  ;  but  for  it,  the  dark 
ages  would  have  been  vastly  darker  ;  and  (if  I 
can  enlarge  a  little  without  boring  anybody)  the 
Crusades,  terrible  waste  as  they  were,  brought 
back  with  them  Arabian  mathematics,  medicine, 
and  decoration;  later,  even  at  the  time  of  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  and  the  religious 
wars  on  the  Continent,  England  was  giving  man- 
kind the  Elizabethan  age;  and  cotemporaneous 
with  the  Spanish  Inquisition  and  the  worst  cor- 
ruptions of  the  Romish  Church,  blossomed  the 
Italian  Renaissance." 

"Yes,"  retorted  Muriel,  "and  much  Christianity 
there  was  in  Arabian  civilization  and,  for  that  mat- 
ter, .in  Elizabeth's  England  and  in  the  Italian  Re- 
naissance!" 

"Well,"    said    Calmire,    "there   seems    to    have 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  57 

been  a  little  of  it  hanging  around  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  as  well  as  Fra 
Angelico  and  Savonarola,  not  to  speak  of  Petrarch 
and  Dante.  Do  try  to  see  both  sides." 

"  You  admit  that  there  are  two?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Unquestionably,"  answered  Calmire.  "  Two 
dozen,  if  you  please  !" 

"  And  I,"  exclaimed  Nina,  "  never  had  wit  enough 
to  reflect  that  there  was  more  than  one!" 

Muriel  turned  to  her  with  great  interest,  and  said: 
"  I  don't  object  to  seeing  all  the  sides  there  are." 

"Then  I  suspect  you'll  admit,"  observed  Cal- 
mire, very  deliberately,  "as  to  Christ  not  having 
preached  the  pugnacious  virtues:  that  it  doesn't 
seem  to  have  been  much  needed  in  his  day.  And 
if  his  preaching  of  peacefulness  was  corrupted  by 
some  into  advocating  cowardice,  his  followers  gen- 
erally haven't  lacked  pluck — even  the  pluck  to 
keep  peaceful  ;  and  that  if  his  preaching  against 
covetous  competition  was  corrupted  into  advocat- 
ing laziness,  his  followers  have  nevertheless  done 
more  than  their  share  of  the  world's  work." 

"  But  why  claim  that  all  the  faults  are  corrup- 
tions ?"  asked  Muriel.  "Why  pick  out  all  that  is 
good  and  venerable  from  the  records,  and  give  the 
credit  of  that  to  Christ;  and  why  lay  up  all  that  is 
absurd  against  the  makers  of  the  records  ?" 

"I  attribute  much  that  is  good,"  answered  Cal- 
mire,  "  to  some  of  the  writers  themselves.  Paul  said 
on  his  own  account  many  of  the  best  things  that  have 
ever  been  said.  And  as  to  the  absurdities,  it  hardly 
seems  fair  to  attribute  them  to  a  person  of  Christ's 
transcendent  genius.  But  whatever  he  may  have 


58  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

left  out,  you'll  admit  that  now  the  churches  preach 
every  virtue  which  the  best  judges  approve." 

"Yes,  whether  Christ  ever  preached  it  or  not," 
answered  Muriel.  "  But  the  churches  preach  such 
an  awful  lot  of  rot  besides.  Oh  Lord!  There  I  go 
again!  Do  forgive  me,  ladies!  I'll  try  not  to  do  it 
any  more." 

This  set  them  laughing  in  spite  of  themselves, 
and  his  forgiveness  was,  at  least  ostensibly,  secure. 

"Well,"  asked  Calmire,  after  a  moment,  "are 
you  finding  fault  with  the  churches  because  they 
preach  virtues  which  Christ  did  not,  or  simply  be- 
cause in  your  opinion  they  are  not  perfect  ?" 

"No,  they're  not!" 

"  On  that  basis,"  responded  Calmire,  "  you'd 
have  to  destroy  every  human  institution,  for  noth- 
ing we  know  is  perfect,  except  young  ladies,  and" 
— to  Mrs.  Wahring — "all  ladies  are  young." 

"I  don't  believe,"  answered  Muriel,  "in  de- 
stroying any  useful  thing  that  has  growth  in  it, 
but  (Be  patient  with  me,  ladies)  the  church  has 
culminated  and  is  going  downhill  and  is  doing 
more  harm  than  good." 

"Well,"  answered  Calmire,  "you  will  have  to  be 
patient  with  me  this  time,  for  I  think  that  view  of 
the  churches  an  excessively  superficial  one." 

Mrs.  Wahring  and  Nina  brightened  up,  as  if  the 
fight  were  going  for  their  side. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Grand,"  said  Muriel,  "  there's  not 
a  university  in  this  land  where  a  man  abreast  of  the 
age  can  teach  all  the  truth  that  is  in  him,  for  fear 
of  hurting  the  religious  prejudice;  and  in  the  most 
intellectual  city  of  the  land,  they  can't  use  a  history 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  59 

in  the  public  schools  that  has  not  lots  of  the  truth 
cut  out  of  it  by  the  Catholic  Church.  Matthew 
Arnold  said  that  the  church  is  the  only  organiza- 
tion of  our  time  for  the  promotion  of  goodness. 
But  that  fellow  Sill,  whose  name  is  getting  frequent 
in  the  magazines,  upset  that  by  answering  that  it 
is  the  only  organization  for  the  suppression  of 
truth.  It  has  fought  discovery  in  every  age;  it 
imprisoned  Galileo,  burnt  Giordano  Bruno,  and 
persecuted  Priestley,  and  to-day  it  is  turning  pro- 
fessors out  of  colleges  for  preaching  evolution." 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  "  every  syllable  of  that  is 
true,  but  so  is  every  syllable  of  this  true,  and  you 
knew  it  all  and  ignore  it:  (Young  people  always 
leave  so  much  out!)  The  church  saved  the  liter- 
ature of  Greece  and  Rome;  in  the  dark  ages,  it 
was  the  only  conservator  of  knowledge:  between 
the  fall  of  Rome  and  the  accession  of  Charles 
the  Great,  there  was  very  little  else  to  prevent 
men  degenerating  into  simianism.  The  church 
has  built  most  of  the  hospitals  and  schools  in 
Europe  and,  till  very  lately,  most  of  those  in 
America — certainly  most  of  the  best  schools;  and, 
to  get  above  the  roots  of  civilization  to  its  fruits, 
the  church  was  the  mother  of  Gothic  architecture, 
of  the  great  Italian  painting  and  sculpture,  and  of 
modern  music.  Whenever  I  go  into  a  fine  cathedral 
during  a  full  service,  I  seem  to  be  more  in  the  cur- 
rent of  the  world's  past  achievement  than  anywhere 
else — if  I  can  stop  thinking  and  give  myself  up  to 
the  art  side." 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel,  "if  you  'can  stop  thinking' 
or  think  only  of '  the  world's  past  achievement.'  But 


60  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

that's  just  the  point.  The  church  is  obstructing 
present  achievement;  it  has  survived  its  usefulness, 
and  I  think  we'd  be  better  off  without  it." 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"  You're  too  fast,"  said  Calmire.  "  I  admit  that  its 
contributions  to  schools  and  hospitals  are  not  rela- 
tively as  great  as  they  used  to  be,  but  take  things 
right  here  in  America,  where  we  know  something 
of  what  we  are  talking  about — the  church's  work 
for  education  and  charity  is  still  enormous.  Ad- 
mit that  Harvard  is  no  longer  a  church  institution, 
and  that  Johns  Hopkins  and  Cornell  and  the  Uni- 
versities of  Michigan  and  Virginia  never  were: 
nevertheless  Yale  and  Princeton  and  Columbia 
and  Amherst  and  Williams  and  most  of  the  others 
of  any  consequence  still  are." 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel;  "  but  some  of  them  are  eager 
to  deny  it  with  one  breath  while  they  assert  it 
with  the  next,  and  your  very  phraseology  admits 
that  the  tendency  of  the  colleges  is  to  grow  away 
from  the  churches." 

"  Oh,  the  discussion  is  not  about  tendencies," 
answered  Calmire,  "  it  is  about  the  facts  to-day. 
Now  the  fact  is,  that  if  the  church  contributions — 
I  mean  the  contributions  of  people  inspired  by  the 
church — were  taken  from  those  institutions,  they 
would  be  in  a  bad  way.  That's  the  fact :  to  pull 
them  away  from  the  church,  would  be  to  break 
off  their  principal  roots.  What  it  would  be  in  that 
'five  hundred  years  hence'  that  Miss  Nina  and  I 
were  just  talking  about,  is  another  question:  but 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  61 

you  propose  to  pull  them  away  from  the  church,  or 
the  church  away  from  them,  now." 

"But — "  interrupted  Muriel. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Calmire.  "  What  I  have 
to  say  is  commonplace  enough,  so  is  what  I  have 
said,  for  that  matter,  and  obvious  enough  when 
you  come  to  think  about  it;  but  when  you  talk  as 
you  do,  it  shows  that  some  people  of  a  good  deal  of 
sense  don't  think  about  it.  If  Christianity  has  done 
something  to  develop  shiftlessness,  it  has  done  more 
to  develop  charity.  Turn  away  from  the  schools 
and  look  at  the  hospitals  and  asylums.  What  are 
St.  Luke's  Hospital,  and  the  Catholic  Orphan  Asy- 
lum just  below  it, — both  right  under  your  eye  every- 
day, and  the  great  Presbyterian  Hospital,  and 
the  Mount  Sinai  and  innumerable  others?  Even 
the  most  of  those  which  are  technically  secular, 
outside  of  those  provided  by  government,  are 
mainly  run  by  societies  in  the  churches.  Consider 
Hospital  Sunday  !  Go  to  any  meeting  for  chari- 
table administration:  most  of  the  men  you  meet 
there  will  be  church  members.  Agnostics  may 
have  their  uses,  but  the  fact  is  that  they're  a  pre- 
cious small  minority  in  that  sort  of  work  !" 

"  What  does  that  queer  word  mean  ?"  asked 
Nina. 

"  What  ?  Agnostics  ?"  asked  Muriel.  (The  word 
was  not  then  as  much  in  vogue  as  it  has  become 
since.) 

"  Yes,"  assented  Nina. 

"  Why,  it  means  a  fellow  who  has  sense  enough 
to  know  what  he  doesn't  know,  and  pluck  enough 
to  say  so." 


62  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

"  Well,  that's  the  most  puzzling  explanation  I 
ever  heard,"  said  Nina.  "'  A  fellow  who  knows 
what  he  doesn't  know'!  How  can  one  do  that?" 

"  Why,"  rejoined  Muriel,  "  in  your  sense,  it's  just 
what  orthodox  people  are  professing  to  do  all  the 
time — to  know  what  they  don't  know  and  what 
nobody  can  know." 

"  Then  '  agnostic  '  is  another  name  for  orthodox 
Christian,  I  suppose,"  said  Nina,  and  turned  toward 
Calmire.  "  You  used  the  word,  Mr.  Calmire;  please 
tell  me  what  you  meant  by  it." 

"  You  took  Muriel's  words  in  the  wrong  sense," 
answered  Calmire.  "  He  meant  a  man  who  says 
he  does  not  know  anything  unless  he  has  the  same 
evidence  for  it  that  is  required  in  ordinary  matters. 
That  involves  the  doctrine  that  knowledge  comes 
to  us  only  through  investigation  and  discovery:  in 
consequence  of  this  doctrine,  such  people  neces- 
sarily hold,  too,  that  there  has  never  been  any 
'  revelation  '  in  the  usual  sense,  and  therefore  they 
are  bound  to  hold  that  Christ's  teachings  were 
not  different  in  their  essential  nature  from  those 
of  other  moralists." 

"  If  you'd  only  write  a  dictionary,  Uncle  Grand!" 
exclaimed  Muriel. 

"  It  might  be  a  little  stiff  in  the  joints!"  said  Cal- 
mire. 

"  Are  you  an  agnostic,  Mr.  Calmire  ?"  asked 
Nina. 

"  Oh,  I'm  accused  of  a  great  deal,"  laughed  Cal- 
mire, evasively. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me?"  said  the  girl.  "I'm 
not  ashamed  to  tell  that  I'm  a  Christian." 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  63 

"When  you  tell  that,"  said  Calmire,  "everybody 
knows  pretty  well  what  you  mean.  But  I've  heard 
many  people  say  that  an  agnostic  must  be  an 
atheist  and  a  disbeliever  in  all  moral  law,  and  as  I 
don't  happen  to  be  quite  that,  by  calling  myself  an 
agnostic  I  should  appear  to  many  people  to  take 
ground  that  I  think  foolish  and  dangerous." 

After  a  moment's  pause,  Muriel  went  back  to  the 
main  subject.  "  You  said,  Uncle  Grand,  that  there 
were  mighty  few  agnostics  doing  any  charitable 
work;  but  there  are  mighty  few  of  us  anyhow. 
Don't  we  do  our  share?" 

"  Well,  I  hardly  expected  you  to  be  tripped  up 
by  so  slight  a  fallacy  as  that,"  said  his  uncle.  "  Of 
course  we're  a  small  minority,  and  even  if  we  do 
many  times  our  share,  the  church  still  does  vastly 
more  than  we,  and  that's  precisely  what  I've  been 
trying  to  demonstrate." 

"But  the  State,"  Uncle  Grand,  "isn't  it  doing 
more  of  the  hospital  business  now  than  the 
church?" 

"  Very  likely,  and  more  of  the  education  too, 
perhaps;  I'm  not  trying  to  demonstrate  that  the 
usefulness  of  the  church  is  not  being  absorbed  by 
other  agencies.  And  I  confess  I  don't  want  the  con- 
tract of  proving  that,  in  time,  other  agencies  can't  do 
the  whole  thing.  But  what  I'm  driving  at,  is  the 
enormous  amount  that  the  church  is  doing  now. 
Not  only  through  her  did  charity  and  education 
come  among  us,  whether  you  like  the  way  of  their 
coming  or  not;  but  it's  largely  through  her  that 
they  stay.  If  you  fight  the  church,  you're  fight- 
ing them,  except  as  you  furnish  other  agencies  to 


64  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

do  the  work:  and  that's  slow  business.  And  here's 
another  very  important  thing — the  enormous  cir- 
culation of  the  religious  weekly  papers,  which  are 
pretty  near  the  only  education  beyond  commerce 
and  politics  that  a  vast  portion  of  the  people  get." 

"So  much  the  worse,"  said  Muriel.  "They're 
poor  stuff." 

"That  doesn't  touch  my  argument,  even  if  it's 
correct,  which  it's  not,  entirely.  The  religious 
weeklies  are  the  best  stuff  that  most  of  those  who 
take  them  can  assimilate,  and  vastly  better  than 
none.  Then,  too,  look  at  the  educational  influ- 
ence of  these  Summer  schools — that  whole  Chau- 
tauqua  business,  for  instance,  is  from  the  church." 

"Great  heavens!  Uncle  Grand,  what  are  you 
giving  us  ?  Have  I  lived  to  hear  you  commend 
such  rot  as  that  ?" 

"  Easy,  Muriel,  easy!  It  isn't  as  bad  as  it  used  to 
be,  and  they  are  making  it  better.  By  the  way,"  he- 
said,  laughing,  "a  number  of  their  journal  which 
I  happened  to  see  the  other  day,  would  perhaps 
commend  itself  to  your  approval,  for  it  contained  a 
paper  by  one  of  the  most  uncompromising  infidels 
of  my  acquaintance,  and  papers  by  two  or  three 
other  men  who  I  believe  belong  in  the  same  cate- 
gory. But  they  are  trying  now  to  get  the  best 
things  that  their  people  can  take,  even  if  they  have 
to  get  them  from  the  opposing  camp.  But  why 
should  I  say  '  opposing' ?  In  many  respects  both 
sides  plainly  want  the  same  thing.  And  now — 
Bless  you,  ladies,  am  I  tiring  you  to  death  ?  I 
don't  care  about  Muriel,  he's  tough,  and  he's  better 
used  to  my  garrulous  moods  than  you  are.  Nina, 
are  bonnets  to  be  high  or  low  this  Fall  ?" 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  65 

"Oh  stop,  Mr.  Calmire!" 

"  That's  precisely  what  I  was  proposing  to  do." 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  meant:  'Go 
on!  '" 

"  You  mean  that  I  apply  to  your  words  the 
meanings  that  tradition  ascribes  to  those  of  your 
sex.  I  don't  generally." 

"  Oh,  stop  teasing  me!  I  was  interested  in  what 
you  were  saying." 

"  Then  I've  been  shamefully  ungrateful,  haven't 
I  ?  But  how  can  I  tell  that  you  will  be  interested 
in  what  I  was  going  to  say  ?" 

"Well,  stop  chaffing,  and  try  me  and  see." 

"  At  your  own  peril,  then.  I  merely  wanted  to 
say  a  little  about  the  social  side  of  the  church." 

"Why  the  new  people  take  pews  in  Grace,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  No,  that's  plain  enough.  But  I  didn't  mean  that, 
though  something  ridiculously  near  it.  What  I 
meant  is  that  the  lower  down  you  go  socially,  the 
more  and  more  the  church  becomes  a  sort  of  social 
club.  It's  about  the  only  society  that  vast  numbers 
of  people  have;  it  gives  them  company  for  their  plea- 
sures and  in  their  sorrows,  and  follows  them  to  their 
graves:  there's  a  world  of  meaning  in  the  underta- 
kers' signs  on  the  churches.  Then,  too,  there's  an- 
other article,  sometimes  of  value  and  sometimes  not, 
which  the  church  supplies — namely,  a  talkative  old 
gentleman  to  harangue  at  the  people's  tables  about 
a  good  many  things  beyond  daily  toils  and  cares." 

"  Seldom  one,  however,"  observed  Mrs.  Wahring, 
"  troubled  by  as  much  modesty  as  some  gentlemen 
I've  known  to  defend  the  church  at  table." 


66  The  Unjust  and  the  Just. 

"  Modest  or  not,"  said  Calmire,  very  earnestly, 
"  the  clergymen  are  generally  extremely  useful 
outside  of  the  church  as  well  as  in  it.  It's  often  re- 
marked in  England,  that  a  clergyman  is  always  a 
gentleman  and,  in  many  out-of-the-way  places,  the 
only  civilizing  influence  his  flock  comes  in  contact 
with.  The  same  is  true  to  a  great  extent  here, 
though  we  have  the  schoolmaster  also;  and  to  a  de- 
gree not  dreamed  of  in  England.  But  you  people 
in  society,  to  whom  the  church,  as  a  social  institu- 
tion, is  but  one  in  many,  don't  begin  to  realize  what 
a  social  help  it  is  to  the  vast  mass  of  people  who 
have  no  other.  Courtenay  could  tell  a  thing  or  two 
about  that  if  he  were  not  too  modest." 

"  You  haven't  spoken  of  the  church  yet  as  a  po- 
lice institution — for  servant-girls,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Yes,  and  you  won't  sneer  at  it  so  much,  even  in 
that  function,  when  you  come  to  keep  house,"  said 
Mrs.  Wahring.  "  I  thank  my  Heavenly  Father 
that  he  has  given  me  the  light  to  despise  the 
Catholic  Church — " 

"'Even  as  this  publican,'"  interjected  Calmire, 
sotto  voce. 

" — but  I  send  my  servants  to  it,"  continued  the 
lady,  and  then  joined  in  the  laugh  which  she  had 
almost  deliberately  raised  at  her  own  exbense. 

"  So  do  I  mine,"  said  Calmire,  "  unless  they  hap- 
pen to  be  Protestants." 

"  My  Protestants  don't  go  nearly  as  regularly  as 
my  Catholics,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"Nor  mine,"  said  Calmire.  "Are  yours  any 
worse  servants  ?" 

"  No,"  the  lady  admitted. 


The  Unjust  and  the  Just.  67 

"The  less  church  the  less  need  of  it,  then,"  said 
Muriel. 

"Can't  you  say:  the  more  need,  the  more 
church?"  asked  Calmire. 

"Well,  perhaps,"  admitted  Muriel,  candidly.  "I 
hadn't  thought  over  all  you've  been  saying." 

"  But  bless  you,  boy,  I  haven't  been  saying  any- 
thing new.  Everybody  here  knew  it  all  before, 
just  as  well  as  I  did." 

"Yes;  but  I've  been  bored  and  pestered  so  about 
the  church — forced  at  college  to  go  to  a  lot  of  ser- 
vices that  I  didn't  care  about,  and  all  that,  that 
I've  done  most  of  my  thinking  on  the  opposition 
side." 

"  Yes,  that's  one  way  the  colleges  are  turning  out 
the  infidels.  But  you  haven't  been  bored  by  it  as 
much  as  I  was.  You  had  (Let  me  see)  eight  ser- 
vices a  week.  In  my  time  they  had  sixteen — seven 
of  them  before  daylight  in  winter." 

"  What  blasted  fools  !"  muttered  Muriel. 

"  Well,"  said  his  uncle,  who  was  not  the  only  one 
who  heard  him,  "I  don't  know  that  I've  any  par- 
ticular objection  to  offer  to  that  sentiment — what- 
ever I  may  think  of  your  way  of  expressing  it," 
lie  added  in  a  good-natured  way. 

Mrs.  Calmire  here  broke  in  with  :  "  The  conver- 
sation of  you  wise  people  has  spun  my  poor  din- 
ner out  very  late  for  village  folks.  The  band  must 
be  gathering.  Let  us  have  coffee  on  the  front 
piazza." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE    BAND    BEGINS    TO    PLAY. 

IT  was  a  pretty  sight  as  they  came  upon  the 
piazza.  The  square  was  ample  and  well  cared 
for,  with  serpentine  walks,  beds  of  flowers  here 
and  there,  and  two  large  but  simple  fountains  scat- 
tering diamonds  under  the  great  electric  lights. 
These  latter  were  a  much-admired  novelty  then. 
In  the  centre  of  the  square  was  the  band-stand, 
where  the  bright  uniforms  of  the  band  had  al- 
ready begun  to  appear.  The  evening  was  perfect. 
People  were  on  the  piazzas  of  the  houses  around, 
others  were  scattered  thickly  on  the  walks,  and 
children  were  running  freely  over  the  turf. 

"I  never  saw  a  scene  of  greater  happiness,"  ex- 
claimed Nina. 

"  Or  for  less  money,"  said  John.  "  It  cost  Cal- 
mire  about  fifty  dollars,  with  the  help  of  our 
machinists,  in  off-hours,  to  get  those  fountain-jets 
there,  and  to  connect  the  electric  lights  with  the 
dynamos  at  the  mill.  Thursday  is  as  nearly  an  off- 
night  as  we  can  make  it,  so  we  can  spare  the  power. 
We  don't  run  these  lights  every  night  yet,  but  shall 
soon.  The  members  of  the  Village  Improvement 
Society,  which  includes  most  of  our  people,  keep 
the  green  in  order  in  their  off-hours,  and  as  new 

68 


The  Band  begins  to  Play.  69 

flowers  are  needed,  my  gardener  supplies  them. 
Calmire  bluffed  me  into  that  by  putting  up  the 
fountains  and  lights  himself.  But  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  the  band  ?  They  seem  to  be  breaking  up." 

Truly  enough,  the  band  were  getting  up  and 
leaving  the  platform,  and  running  toward  them 
was  a  youth  lugging  a  ponderous  bearskin  cap 
and  a  drum-major's  staff.  These  portentous  para- 
phernalia were  assumed  by  one  of  the  men,  who 
placed  himself  in  front  of  the  others,  marshaled 
them  into  rank,  raised  his  staff  and  set  them 
marching  to  the  tap  of  the  drums,  and  followed 
by  the  crowd,  over  to  where  our  friends  were  sit- 
ting. After  they  had  gone  a  few  steps,  the  drum- 
major  raised  his  staff  again,  and  the  band  struck 
up,  "  Hail  to  the  Chief."  When  they  were  in  the 
street  before  the  house,  the  leader  signaled  a  halt, 
pulled  off  his  big  cap  and  cried,  "  Now,  three  cheers 
for  Mr.  Calmire." 

That  meant  Legrand.  His  brother  was  "  Mr. 
John." 

The  cheers  were  given  with  a  will  by  the  whole 
crowd,  hats  and  handkerchiefs  waving  all  around 
the  square,  for  even  the  people  on  the  piazzas 
at  a  distance  saw  what  was  going  on  and  partici- 
pated. 

Calmire  moved,  uncovered,  to  the  head  of  the 
front  steps,  his  brother  and  Muriel  behind  him, 
when  the  crowd,  true  to  its  American  instincts, 
began  to  clamor:  "  Speech  !  Speech  !"  He  waited, 
smiling,  for  the  noise  to  subside,  and  then  said,  so 
that  all  within  long  ear-shot  could  hear:  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve we  want  any  speechifying  to-night.  We're  alJ 


70  The  Band  begins  to  Play. 

here  to  listen  to  the  band.  You  know  I'm  glad  to 
get  back  among  you,  or  else  you  wouldn't  be  glad 
to  see  me,  and  your  being  glad  to  see  me  makes  me 
doubly  glad  to  get  back.  I've  seen  a  great  many 
beautiful  and  wonderful  places  since  I've  been 
away  from  you,  and  a  great  many  kinds  of  people, 
but  I've  seen  no  place  and  no  people  that  can 
make  life  worth  as  much  to  me  as  it  is  just  here. 
How  d'ye  do,  Billy?"  With  the  last  few  words 
he  had  walked  down  the  steps  and  grasped  the 
hand  of  the  drum -major,  who  with  the  rest  of 
the  band  had  moved  up  to  the  steps  to  hear 
him:  "Are  you  all  well?  You  seem  to  stand  it 
pretty  well,  Mr.  Bissell,"  to  a  gray-haired,  fierce- 
mustached,  kind-eyed  little  man  behind  the  bass 
drum,  who  had  performed  with  acceptance  on 
that  instrument  in  the  Mexican  War,  and  been 
for  the  last  twenty-eight  years  chief  engineer  in 
the  Calmire  Mills.  "Well,  Clint,  old  boy,  I  sup- 
pose the  high  notes  come  in  tune  by  this  time," 
to  a  gigantic  fellow,  with  the  bass  tuba,  whose 
hand  he  shook  with  special  heartiness. 

The  big  fellow's  expression  of  joy  was  a  tre- 
mendous oath,  to  which  he  added,  almost  weeping, 
"  But  ain't  I  glad  to  see  you  back,  Mr.  Calmire  !" 

"What's  the  news  from  Africa  ?"  Calmire  asked. 

"Ah,  Jim's  a  damned  big  man  out  there,  sir," 
was  the  answer. 

"Well,  Johnny,"  continued  Calmire,  as  he  laid  a 
hand  affectionately  on  the  shoulder  of  a  slight, 
great-eyed  boy  of  twenty,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you've 
got  the  horn.  How  goes  it,  my  son  ?"  So,  with 
a  word  for  nearly  eve'ry  man,  he  shook  hands  with 


The  Band  begins  to  Play.  7 1 

each  of  the  players.  Then  he  turned  to  go  back 
to  the  porch,  saying,  "Now,  the  music,  please. 
You  know  one  or  two  things  that  I've  wanted  to 
hear  you  play,  ever  since  I  left  you." 

By  the  time  the  Calmires  and  their  guests  were 
reassembled  around  the  tables  on  the  piazza  and 
the  cigars  lit,  a  single  strain,  clear  and  sweet,  arose 
from  a  French  horn  on  the  band-stand.  It  was 
supported  in  the  first  few  bars  by  little  more  than 
a  hint  of  accompaniment,  but  gradually  the  instru- 
ments dropped  in  until  there  swelled  up  what 
Calmire  felt  to  be  the  greatest  surge  of  harmony 
that  man  has  yet  known — the  Pilgrim  Chorus  from 
Tannhduser.  It  kept  rising,  rising,  stirring  sym- 
pathetic listeners  to  feel:  "Ah!  there  is  a  height 
commanding  all  things.  We  are  nearing  it !"  And 
then  it  fell  back,  as  all  human  experiences  do,  and, 
more  happy  than  most,  lost  itself  in  sweetness  and 
silence. 

For  some  momentsour  friends  said  nothing.  Mrs. 
Wahring  was  the  first  to  speak:  "Mr.  Calmire" 
(turning  to  John),  "  that  band  has  been  under  an 
artist;  who  was  he?" 

Legrand  took  it  upon  himself  to  answer.  "That 
boy  with  the  French  horn  is  a  genius.  I  suppose 
he's  kept  that  band  in  shape  since  I  heard  it  last. 
His  name  is  John  Granzine.  His  father  is  employed 
in  our  offices." 

"  He  didn't  find  his  way  to  the  Tannhduser  over- 
ture alone,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring.  (It  was  less  known 
then  than  now.)  "  It's  still  more  certain  that  he 
didn't  find  his  own  way  to  leaving  out  all  of  it  that 
is  unsuited  for  a  brass  band.  It's  equally  certain 


72  The  Band  begins  to  Play. 

that  no  boy  was  able  to  drill  all  those  clods  to 
keep  their  places  under  him  as  they  did.  Who 
was  the  master?" 

"  What's  the  use  of  fooling,  Uncle  Grand  ?"  burst 
in  Muriel.  "  Mrs.  Wahring  can't  help  learning 
sooner  or  later  that  you  taught  the  band." 

"  No  mortal  man  taught  them  to  do  that,"  said 
Calmire.  "  They  caught  some  of  the  inspiration 
which  the  Universe  itself  throbbed  through  Wag- 
ner. They  never  played  it  so  under  me.  I  do  be- 
lieve the  kind  souls  were  lifted  to  it  by  their  feeling 
at  seeing  me  home  again,"  and  Calmire's  lips  gave 
a  hardly  perceptible  twitch.  "  That  was  why 
Johnny  had  the  French  horn  instead  of  his  regu- 
lar instrument.  I  must  go  over  and  thank  them  by 
and  by." 

Soon  they  trooped  down  the  steps,  John  and 
Nina  in  front.  Nina  had  trusted  John  at  once, 
and,  without  any  thought  of  reticence,  began  to 
pour  out  to  him  what  was  first  in  her  mind. 
"  What  queer  talk  we  had  at  table!" 

"Yes,  Legrand  will  talk  you  deaf,  dumb,  and 
blind." 

"Now,  Mr.  Calmire,  what  makes  you  go  on  in 
that  way?  You  know  you  admire  your  brother 
more  than  you  do  any  human  being  but  that  quiet 
little  lady  with  him  now.  Haven't  I  seen  you  with 
them  for  two  whole  hours  ?" 

"  Well,  I  do  admit  that  Legrand  has  a  good  point 
or  two.  He's  certainly  a  relief  from  Muriel's 
jabber." 

"  Is  Mr.  Muriel  really  a  trial  to  you  ?" 

"  Well,  he's  a  kind-hearted  cub.      He  wants  every- 


The  Band  begins  to  Play.  73   : 

body  to  be  happy,  provided  they'll  be  happy  in  his  1 
way.     He  always  takes  that  way  himself,  without    S 
troubling  himself  about  other  people.     He  doesn't 
seem  to  care  to  do  anything,  though,  but  blow  his 
cornet,  and  flirt  with  the  girls.     But  I  mustn't  be 
prejudicing  you  against  the  boy.     You  put  one  in 
a  confidential  mood,  somehow,  and  I've  talked  be- 
yond bounds." 

"Isn't  Mr.  Muriel  enormously  influenced  by  the 
people  he  is  with  ?  He  seems  to  care  for  Mr.  Cal- 
mire's  society,  and  Mr.  Calmire  is  not  exactly  a 
girl.  Does  he  avoid  you  ?" 

"  No,  he  hangs  around  and  talks,  and  sometimes 
gets  me  to  talking,  for  I  do  rather  like  the  fellow, 
though  I  don't  like  his  ways." 

"  I've  had  some  specimens  of  them!" 

The  object  of  John's  misgivings  was  now  visible, in 
conference  with  the  leader  of  the  band,  who  seemed 
to  have  come  down  to  speak  with  him,  and  they 
heard  Muriel  say:  "Yes,  after  a  while."  Then  Cal- 
mire said  to  the  leader:  "  It  was  very  kind  in  you, 
George,  to  give  me  the  Tannhduser  to  welcome  me 
home.  No  other  music  could  have  given  me  as 
much  happiness." 

"  I'm  very  glad,  indeed,  Mr.  Legrand,  but  Johnny 
Granzine  deserves  the  credit." 

"Yes,  Johnny  knows;  but  you're  all  very  kind. 
Does  Johnny  stick  to  his  work,  or  does  he  want  to 
be  at  his  music  all  the  while  ?" 

"  His  father  has  taken  him  out  of  the  mill  alto- 
gether, and  Mr.  Courtenay  is  getting  him  ready  to 
go  to  college  this  Fall." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  but  that  is  best.     I  had  a 


74  The  Band  begins  to  Play. 

talk  with  his  father  about  it  before  I  went  away." 

Nina  strolled  through  and  around  the  square  on 
the  arm  of  John,  who  was  greeted  by  most  of  the 
people  with  kindly  respect,  he  invariably  touching 
his  hat  to  the  men  and  taking  it  off  to  the  women. 
In  the  throng,  were  a  good  many  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, some  of  them  owners  of  factories  in  the  vi- 
cinity, a  few  living  at  economical  ease  in  Calmire 
because  it  was  a  place  of  exceptional  prettiness, 
orderliness  and  peace,  and  a  few  "  Summer  board- 
ers "  who  were  there  for  the  same  reason.  More- 
over, the  Thursday  evenings  on  the  Calmire  Green, 
with  its  fine  band  and  electric  lights,  had  come  to 
be  talked  about  in  the  neighborhood  so  that  people 
came  to  them  from  even  farther  than  our  party  had, 
in  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  from  the  farmer's  rockaway 
to  the  village  blood's  piano-box  and  the  dog-cart 
of  the  Summer  sojourner,  and  now  and  then  a  four- 
in-hand. 

"  Tell  me  some  more  about  Mr.  Courtenay,"  said 
Nina  to  John  Calmire. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  splendid  fellow." 

"What  is  he  like?" 

"  Look  like  ?  Like  the  pictures  of  St.  John.  I 
call  him  St.  John.  It  won't  do  to  call  him  Jack 
any  more,  now  that  he's  a  parson."  *. 

"  You  used  to  call  him  Jack  ?  He's  a  young  man, 
then  ?" 

"Yes,  about  twenty-five.  But  I  tell  you  he  has 
an  old  head  on  him  when  it  comes  to  prudence  and 
patience  and  kindness.  You  don't  catch  him  burst- 
ing into  things  and  people  the  way  Muriel  does." 

Somehow  Nina  wished  that  John  would  not  be 


The  Band  begins  to  Play.  75 

quite  so  hard  on  Muriel  all  the  time:  although  she 
had  been  perfectly  willing  to  be  hard  on  him  her- 
self. 

A  little  pause  ensued,  and  while  Nina  was  fairly 
reveling  in  the  happiness  around  her,  her  ear  was 
attacked  by  a  most  elaborate  roulade  on  the  cor- 
net, which  had  been  preceded  by  a  few  introduc- 
tory chords  by  the  band.  Then  came  three  or 
four  pairs  of  notes,  the  first  a  high  one  sustained, 
increased,  diminished  with  great  delicacy  and 
power;  the  next  a  gymnastic  drop  to  a  tone  at  the 
bottom  of  the  instrument's  compass  which  fairly 
made  the  air  throb  ;  after  them  a  sustained  trill, 
and  then  a  dash  off  into  a  chromatic  waltz  that  was 
a  marvel  of  grace  and  execution.  All  motion 
among  the  crowd  converged  toward  the  band- 
stand, and  there,  the  band  lightly  touching  an  ac- 
companiment for  him,  stood  Muriel,  playing  away 
at  a  second,  madder  strain  with  the  fire  of  all  the 
satyrs. 

"Wasn't  it  delightful  ?"  demanded  Nina  of  Mr. 
John  Calmire  after  the  piece  was  over.  It  did  not 
silence  her  as  the  Tannhduser  overture  had  done. 

"  I'd  like  it  just  as  well  if  the  beggar  didn't  show 
himself  off  before  this  crowd,"  sympathetically  re- 
sponded John. 

Then  Nina  heard  a  girl  behind  her  say  to  an- 
other: "Yes!  He  is  a  wonderful  man.  I  know 
that  better  than  anybody  else." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  girl's  com- 
panion. 

"Oh,  nothing.  He's  a  great  friend  of  Johnny's, 
and  I  play  the  piano  while  Johnny  practices  his 


j6  The  Band  begins  to  Play. 

parts  in  their  music,  and  Johnny  tells  me  all  about 
him.  So  I  feel  that  I  understand  all  about  him, 
you  see." 

None  of  these  observations  had  been  made  in  a 
confidential  tone,  and  Nina  unconsciously  turned 
to  look  at  the  speaker.  She  was  very  pretty,  a 
year  or  two  over  twenty,  of  medium  height,  full 
and  not  ungraceful  figure,  brown  velvety  eyes  and 
brown  hair.  She  was  rather  showily  dressed,  but 
not  expensively,  evidently  not  a  menial  and  yet 
possibly  not  quite  a  lady. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  talking  about  Mr.  Muriel  ?" 
asked  Nina  of  John. 

"  Minerva  Granzine,  the  sister  of  the  boy  who 
played  the  horn.  She  sings  as  well  as  he  plays." 

"  I  only  half  like  her.    She  seems  pretty,  though." 

"  She  professes  to  be,  I  believe." 

"You  odd  man!  Don't  you  ever  begin  by  speak- 
ing well  of  people?" 

"  Get  somebody  to  ask  me  about  you!" 

John's  habits  of  speech,  and  Nina's  uncertain 
feeling,  were  not  far  out  about  Minerva  Granzine. 
In  saying  that  Muriel  was  a  great  friend  of  Johnny's, 
she  told  a  little  lie.  She  would  not  have  done  it, 
though,  if  her  somewhat  vainglorious  speech  had 
not  made  it  awkward  for  her  to  tell  the  truth  ;  for 
lying  was  not  her  habit.  Muriel  had  never  been 
intimate  with  Johnny,  though  he  liked  and  admired 
him,  as  everybody  did;  but  Muriel  could  not  act 
a  part,  and  there  were  facts  inconsistent  with  pro- 
fessions of  friendship  from  him  to  Minerva's 
brother:  so  he  made  none. 


CHAPTER    X. 

SYMPATHY  ? 

THE  T-cart  was  at  the  door  at  ten.  It  was  clear 
starlight — so  clear  that  Calmire  had  ordered  the 
lamps  put  out  "  so  that  we  can  see  the  night,"  and 
until  they  were  in  sight  of  the  great  river,  save 
for  an  occasional  comment  on  something  in  the 
scenery,  they  enjoyed  the  beautiful  silence  that 
was  only  emphasized  by  the  rhythmic  trab-trab  of 
the  horses'  feet. 

Nina  afterward  said  more  than  once,  that  in 
that  meditation,  she  began  to  be  a  woman.  Be- 
fore then,  life  had  not  brought  her  any  questions, 
nor  had  anybody  in  her  world.  It  was  the  cut-and- 
dried  world  of  a  New  York  girl  of  easy  circum- 
stances, educated  at  home  and  seeing  nobody  but 
the  usual  run  of  society  people — a  society  (at  that 
time,  let  us  say,)  probably  more  moral,  more  intel- 
ligent, and  less  intellectual  than  that  of  any  other 
great  metropolis  in  the  civilized  world.  During 
that  day  Nina  had  heard  questioned,  for  the  first 
time,  several  things  which  she  had  taken  as  mat- 
ters of  course,  just  as  she  had  taken  light  and 
air.  She  had  never  heard  the  Calmires  spoken 
of  in  any  other  tones  than  those  of  respect,  yet 
here  she  had  found  them  all  professing  opinions 
which,  so  far  as  she  had  thought  anything  about 
them,  she  had  supposed  to  be  held  only  by  the  de- 

77 


78  Sympathy  ? 

praved.  What  was  stranger  still,  she  had  not  found 
these  opinions,  as  these  people  put  them,  too  re- 
pulsive to  interest  her.  Thinking  was  natural  to 
her,  but  had  not  yet  become  habitual :  she  had 
known  too  little  of  either  sadness  or  loneliness  to 
be  driven  to  it,  and  the  books  and  friends  that 
had  been  furnished  her,  had  not  tempted  her  to  it. 
She  had  unquestioningly  taken  her  peaceful  life  as 
it  had  come.  And  now  as  she  was  pondering  these 
new  and  strange  things,  in  spite  of  all  her  interest, 
she  felt  a  sense  of  disturbance  and  unrest:  the 
sense  of  insecurity  was  hardly  developed;  and  she 
also  experienced  a  shadow  of  resentment  against 
the  authors  of  the  commotion,  as  if  somebody  were 
rocking  a  boat  in  which  she  had  been  smoothly 
gliding. 

As  her  mind  drifted  back,  it  came  to  Muriel's  in- 
cidental mention  of  his  own  life,  as  they  had  passed 
over  the  same  road  in  the  daylight.  Somehow  the 
darkness  that  had  come  over  the  scene  seemed  to 
have  come  over  his  allusions.  She  had  not  thought 
anything  about  them  in  the  afternoon,  she  was  so. 
much  interested  in  what  he  was  telling  her  of  the 
place  they  were  going  to,  and  the  way  it  had  come 
to  be  what  it  was;  but  now,  she  was  struck  almost 
suddenly  by  the  consciousness  that  in  his  daylight 
story  of  activity  and  sympathy  and  prosperity, 
there  had  been  a  dark  passage.  She  fell  to  musing 
over  it.  This  young  man  by  her  side  had  never 
known  a  mother  or  father.  She  had  heard  one  of 
the  visitors  whom  her  father's  business-connection 
brought  to  the  house,  quote  a  Chinese  saying,  that 
the  three  greatest  losses  are,  in  youth,  the  father; 


Sympathy  f  79 

in  middle  life,  the  wife;  in  old  age,  a  son.  The 
young  man  by  her  side,  had  known  the  first ;  Cal- 
mire  had  known  the  second.  To  her,  who  had 
known  none,  it  seemed  unimaginably  terrible.  She 
recalled  Muriel's  words:  "So  I've  been  kicking 
around  ever  since,  always  tying  up  to  Uncle  Grand 
when  I  can."  Why,  he  had  been  for  months  at  a 
time,  without  anybody  to  love  him  !  That  was  as 
vaguely  terrible  as  the  rest.  Involuntarily  she 
turned  to  him  with: 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Muriel !" 

The  young  man  was  never  more  astonished  in 
his  life.  Sorry  for  him  ?  For  him,  the  envied  of 
the  envied — the  handsomest,  most  talented,  most 
accomplished,  most  free-handed,  most  princely, 
most  courted  young  man  at  his  college!  Why, 
what  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  ridiculous  could 
she  be  thinking  about?  He  had  never  had  more 
than  two  or  three  hard  knocks  in  his  life.  These 
came  out  distinctly  enough  in  the  flash  which  her 
sentence  cast  over  his  reminiscences:  but  when  they 
occurred,  they  had  been  speedily  hidden  by  fresh 
successes  and  fresh  laudations.  The  memory  of 
them  had  an  ugly  habit,  it  was  true,  of  obtruding 
itself,  sometimes  on  the  most  inconvenient  occa- 
sions. They  did  make  a  little  drop  of  bitterness  in 
his  overflowing  cup.  But  it  was  so  little  !  It  kept 
pretty  well  by  itself,  and  did  not  spoil  the  wine  of 
life;  and  who  had  had  more  of  that  than  he  ?  And 
whose  merits  entitled  him  to  more?  Conscious- 
ness of  all  this  flashed  through  him  too  quickly  to 
make  any  perceptible  pause  before  he  asked  : 


8o  Sympathy? 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Miss  Wahring?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  what  you  told  me  about  your- 
self this  afternoon." 

He  had  had  it  in  mind  very  definitely  that  he 
would  like  her  to  spend  some  thought  on  him — 
on  the  way  he  had  played  the  waltz,  and  on  the 
elegant  appearance  he  nattered  himself  he  had  made 
in  the  various  costumes  he  had  sported  before  her. 
These  moderate  ambitions  were  not  based  on  any 
desire  for  her  admiration  more  special  than  he  felt 
for  that  of  every  approved  member  of  her  sex:  un- 
less, perhaps,  there  was  a  certain  stimulus  to  such 
ambitions  in  the  fact  that  she  had  made  him  feel  a 
little  more  uncomfortable  than  any  woman  ever 
had  before.  And  here,  she  had  indeed  been  turn- 
ing him  over  in  her  mind,  and  instead  of  being  re- 
sistlessly  impelled  to  burst  out  with  some  compli- 
ment to  his  unprecedented  splendors,  she  was 
simply  occupied  in  pitying  him.  And  that,  too, 
because  of  circumstances  which,  though  he  duti- 
fully, and  sometimes  very  sentimentally,  recognized 
them  as  afflictions,  did  not  really  enter  into  his 
view  of  his  life,  as  any  very  serious  detraction  from 
its  joys  or  its  successes.  Of  course,  most  of  this  had 
passed  through  his  mind  again  and  again  before- 
hand, and  required  only  a  glance  of  recognition  to 
color  his  response  to  Nina. 

"Why,  is  that  the  most  interesting  thing  about 
me  that  you've  found  to  think  of?" 

"Yes." 

"Well!!!" 

He  was  but  a  boy,  and  in  his  way  a  very  candid 
boy.  But,  perhaps,  if  he  had  known  how  petty  a 


Sympathy  f  8  r 

thing  his  chagrin  was,  he  would  have  held  in  his  ex- 
pression, or  at  least  the  long  breath  which  followed 
it.  He  was  conscious,  however,  of  there  being 
something  awkward  for  him  in  the  silence  which 
ensued — conscious  enough  to  break  it,  and  in  a 
conciliatory  way: 

"  Well,  it  is  kind  in  you  to  be  sorry  for  my  losses: 
but  you  know  that  I  never  knew  my  parents — they 
died  when  I  was  so  young  ;  so,  though  I  wish  I 
had  them,  it  really  has  not  made  so  much  difference 
to  me." 

"Why,  you  have  had  no  home." 

"Oh,  I've  got  along  pretty  well !" 

Now  in  Nina's  opinion,  he  had  not  got  along  well 
at  all,  and,  young  as  she  was,  she  spontaneously 
traced  to  this  very  absence  of  a  home,  some  of  the 
particulars  in  which  he  had  not  got  along  well. 
She  had  been  unable  to  hold  back  the  blunt  "Yes  !" 
with  which  she  had  just  given  him  his  second  fall 
for  that  day,  but  she  was  really,  as  she  said,  sorry 
for  him,  and  perhaps  was  not  as  unconscious  of 
the  things  which  he  considered  most  interesting 
about  himself,  as  that  blunt  "Yes"  had  indicated. 
So,  despite  this  new  development  of  his  interest  in 
himself,  her  answer  was: 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  not  suffered  as  much  as  I 
thought.  You  know,  I  have  always  had  home  and 
father  and  mother,  and  it  seemed  to  me  very  hor- 
rible that  anybody  should  be  without  them." 

"Well,  I  try  to  console  myself  by  seeing  as  much 
on  the  bright  side  as  I  can,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't 
had  much  care,  but  I've  at  least  had  free  swing 
for  my  wits" — the  gentle  implication  that  she  had 


82  Sympathy  f 

not  had  free  swing  for  her  wits,  being  inspired  by 
the  fall  she  had  given  him. 

"I  believe  you  intimated,  too,  that  you'd  had 
more  or  less  the  run  of  Mr.  Calmire's  wits!"  his 
courtesy  prompted  her  to  add. 

"Well,  not  so  very  much,  but  I've  learned  more 
from  him  than  from  everybody  else  put  together." 
Even  Muriel's  wounded  vanity  could  be  forgotten 
in  his  loyalty  to  Calmire.  The  girl  felt  it,  and  felt 
more  amiable  toward  him  for  it.  She  said; 

"But,  Mr.  Muriel,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  it's  the 
best  thing  for  us  young  people  to  have  what  you 
call  free  swing  for  our  wits.  Why,  you  don't  seem 
to  have  anything  to  hold  on  by." 

"  Don't  want  to  hold  on  by  anything.  I  like  free 
swing." 

"  But,  even  a  swing  must  be  fastened  to  some- 
thing." 

"Well!  I've  got  my  seven  senses  and  this  big 
universe  to  swing  'em  in,  and  Uncle  Grand  to  talk 
to  when  I  can  get  at  him,  and  plenty  of  young 
ladies  to  give  me  good  advice."  He  didn't  know 
whether  he  meant  to  be  sarcastic  or  gallant,  and 
she  knew  that  he  meant  both. 

"  I  don't  remember  giving  you  any." 

"That's  so  !  You  haven't !  Yet,  I  feel  as  if  you 
had.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  grateful,  oughtn't  I  ?" 

"Wait  till  you  see  if  it  does  you  any  good." 

"  It  tastes  bad  enough  to  !" 

"Can't  you  young  people  manage  to  keep  the 
peace  back  there  ?"  called  Calmire,  who  had  caught 
the  general  tone  of  the  conversation. 

"We've  just  come  to  a  stopping-place,"  said 
Muriel. 


Sympathy  ?  g  ^ 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  Calmire.  "  Mrs.  Wahr- 
ing  and  I  have  been  gradually  brought  to  silence 
by  all  the  beauty  there,"  pointing  to  the  river, 
which  was  calm  and  mirrored  the  hills,  and  the 
lights  and  stars  in  long  quivering  rays  of  fire  and 
silver.  "  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  take  you  here,  Miss  Nina. 
That  boy  is  a  little  too  bumptious  to  talk  to  you, 
and  your  mother  would  have  kept  him  in  order." 

"It's  Miss  Wahring  keeping  me  in  order  that 
makes  all  the  fuss,  sir."  Calmire  was  the  only 
man  whom  Muriel  ever  addressed  as  "  sir." 

After  his  remark,  they  relapsed  into  silence. 

Muriel  loved  nature.  He  had  long  given  up 
imagining  celestial  visions,  and  such  communion 
as  he  had  with  the  Power  behind  our  lives,  was 
principally  through  its  manifestation  in  broad  ex- 
panses of  natural  beauty.  He  was  soon  lost  in  con- 
templation of  the  scene.  Whatever  he  might  feel 
regarding  himself  before  men  and  women,  before 
such  surroundings  as  these,  self  was  nothing.  Yet 
they  brought  him  a  certain  invigoration,  and  he 
seldom  contemplated  those  high  waving  sky-lines 
without  recalling  :  "  I  will  look  up  unto  the  hills, 
from  whence  cometh  my  strength."  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  lifted  out  of  his  pettiness,  and, 
turning  to  Nina,  said:  "  Look  here,  Miss  Wahring. 
Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  you  and  I  must  have  a 
taste  or  two  in  common.  Suppose  we  try  not  to 
quarrel  so  over  everything  under  God's  heaven." 

"  It's  over  things  in  God's  heaven,"  she  answered, 
"where  I  fear  that  our  most  serious  differences 
are  apt  to  arise." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE     NEW     GENESIS. 

"  WELL,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  know  about 
things  in  God's  heaven  ?"  said  Muriel. 

"  We  are  told  a  great  deal,"  she  answered. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "by  Milton  and  other  poets,  but 
less  by  the  Bible  than  people  generally  suppose." 

"  Why!"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  supposed  that  all  we 
knew  came  from  the  Bible." 

"  A  good  deal  more  than  we  know,"  he  replied, 
"comes  from  poets  and  Bible  both." 

"  Mr.  Calmire,  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  in 
that  way.  When  you  spoke  against  the  church,  at 
dinner,  it  was  one  thing  ;  but  to  speak  against 
Christianity  itself  is  another." 

"  The  discrimination,  at  least,  does  you  credit," 
he  said  ;  "but  we're  getting  to  quarreling  again. 
Let's  talk  about  the  heavens  we  can  see." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  who  made  those  stars  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Do  you  ?" 

"  Don't  joke  with  me,  I  really  want  to  know  what 
you  think  about  it,"  she  said. 

"  Is  that  the  reason,"  he  asked,  "  you  began  with 
the  question  with  which  Napoleon  is  said  to  have 
posed  certain  of  his  unbelieving  officers  ?" 

"I  did  not  ask  it  with  any  desire  to  'pose'  you." 

"Well,  I  answered  you  just  as  I  would  have 
answered  Napoleon," 

84 


The  New  Genesis.  85 

"  Suppose,  then,  that  Napoleon  had  replied 
'God'?" 

"  I  should  have  asked  him  what  he  meant." 

"Why,  God!"  she  said.  "What  can  God  mean 
but  God  ?" 

"  It  seems,"  he  answered,  "  to  mean  very  differ- 
ently to  different  people — to  Moses  and  Christ, 
for  instance." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  can't  understand  that; 
but  even  if  it  is  so,  suppose  I  say  the  God  of 
Moses,  who  made  the  world  in  six  days  and  rested 
on  the  seventh  ?" 

"  I  should  have  said  that  Moses  evidently  made 
his  creation,  and  therefore  presumably  his  God, 
out  of  whole  cloth.  We  know  that  this  earth  was 
not  made  in  six  days;  we  knoiv  that  the  other 
globes,  the  sun  and  stars  visible  to  Moses,  were 
not,  as  he  supposed,  mere  lights  for  the  benefit  of 
this  globe;  and  that  even  the  most  violent  stretch- 
ing of  what  we  know,  to  make  it  fit  Moses'  state- 
ments, does  no  more  than  convince  any  candid 
mind  that  Moses  didn't  know  what  he  was  talking 
about." 

"  I've  heard  that  his  narrative  was  the  best  in  all 
the  religions,"  she  said. 

"  It  may  be,"  he  answered.  "  Some  narrative  had 
to  be  the  best,  and  it  is  quite  natural  that  we 
should  now  find  that  one  in  the  possession  of  the 
most  advanced  nations." 

"But  I  think  I've  heard,  too,"  she  continued, 
"  that  there  is  a  correspondence  between  the  order 
in  which  science  says  things  were  created,  and  the 
order  in  which  Moses  tells  us  they  were." 


86  The  New  Genesis. 

"  It  would  be  very  strange  if  there  were  not  some 
correspondence,"  he  rejoined,  "  and  if  the  hosts  of 
able  men  who  have  been  trying  to  find  what  corre- 
spondence there  is,  had  not  succeeded.  It  would 
be  utterly  impossible  to  give  any  two  coherent 
plans,  even  if  one  of  them  were  the  actual  one,  be- 
tween which  such  vast  ingenuity  would  not  find 
some  resemblance.  But  yet  most  of  the  resem- 
blances found,  are  based  on  assumptions  that  Moses 
didn't  quite  say  what  he  meant,  or  didn't  quite 
mean  what  he  said." 

"Well,  it  may  be  an  odd  confession  for  a  girl 

who  is  called  educated;  but  I  have  only  the  loosest 

ideas  of  what  is  said  to  have  been  discovered  of  the 

way  things  got  to  be  as  they  are.     And  I  suspect 

.that,  after  all,  at  bottom  I  hate  your  cold  science." 

"  Now,  Miss  Wahring !"  the  boy  exclaimed, 
"  you've  too  much  sense  to  use  a  parrot  phrase  like 
that." 

"Why,"  said  the  girl,  "  it's  bugs,  and  stones,  and 
weeds,  and  cutting  people  up,"  and  she  laughed. 

"  I  thought,"  said  the  boy,  "  that  you  just  spoke 
of  it  as  concerning  the  start  and  the  origin  of  all 
things." 

"  Forgive  me!"  she  said  seriously.  "  I'm  afraid 
I  have  a  little  stubborn  fit  to-night.  When  I've 
been  having  a  good  time,  I  like  to  chaff." 

"Yet,"  he  answered,  "you  didn't  like  me  to  do 
it  a  few  minutes  ago,  though  I  didn't  really  contra- 
dict anything  true:  I  only  exaggerated.  But  you 
girls  are  all  alike,"  graciously  observed  the  young 
gentleman.  "  Even  when  you  know  anything,  you 
never  think  of  what  you  know.  You  know  per- 


The  New  Genesis.  87 

fectly  well  that  there  is  a  science  of  Light  and  a 
science  of  Thought  and  a  science  of  Morals." 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  and  the  books  look  awfully 
big  and  hard  and  stupid." 

"  But  here  you've  been  expressing  an  interest  in 
what's  in  some  of  them  !"  he  remonstrated. 

She  did  not  respond  promptly,  and  Calmire,  who 
in  a  lull  in  his  talk  with  Mrs.  Wahring  had  caught 
their  last  few  sentences,  said: 

"You  don't  hate  knowledge,  Nina?" 

"  Of  course  not,  only  when  it's  stupid." 

"  That's  the  way  they  generally  administer  it  to 
girls,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Calmire;  "but  if  you  don't 
hate  knowledge,  you  don't  hate  Science,  for  it's 
only  knowledge  classified — acknowledge,  of  every- 
thing— of  beautiful  things  as  well  as  homely  ones, 
belongs  in  science  as  truly  as  the  baldest  equation 
or  the  coldest  iceberg." 

"  Yes,  I've  sometimes  really  had  a  notion  of  that," 
she  said,  "  but  I  didn't  realize  it  just  now  because 
I've  been  quarreling  with  Mr.  Muriel  about  Moses, 
and  because  I've  always  been  hearing  science 
spoken  ill  of,  as  an  enemy  to  religion.  What  makes 
religious  people  hate  science  so,  anyhow  ?" 

"  It's  not  the  religious  people,  but  the  dogmatic 
people.  Pretty  much  every  religion  has  had  to 
profess  some  account  of  the  origin  and  destiny  of 
things,  to  get  its  moral  principles  from.  In  early 
days  it  was  all  guesswork,  and  so  the  dogmatic 
notions  are  always  coming  into  conflict  with  the 
new  truths  which  are  based  on  actual  knowledge, 
as  fast  as  Science  brings  them  out:  Therefore  those 
who  love  dogma,  hate  Science." 


88  The  New  Genesis. 

"  But,"  she  expostulated,  "  Moses  didn't  write  the 
whole  Bible.  It  can 'tall  be  dogma,  even  if  his  part  is." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Calmire,  "  but  haven't  the  pope 
and  the  councils  been  making  dogma,  even  in  your 
time  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  only  Catholics  accept  that." 

"But  don't  you  suppose,"  asked  Calmire,  "that 
before  our  brarich  of  the  church  split  off,  they  must 
have  made  a  tremendous  amount  of  that  same  sort 
of  doctrine,  which  we  necessarily  inherit  from  the 
common  stock?  And  haven't  we  different  dogmas 
through  all  the  Protestant  sects  ?" 

"  Why,  certainly.    I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

"  It's  worth  thinking  of,"  said  Muriel,  sotto  voce, 
remembering  her  comment  of  the  morning.  She 
recalled  it  too,  and  turning  with  a  deprecating  wave 
of  the  hand,  which  barely  touched  him,  burst  into 
candid  laughter. 

"Why!  what  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Calmire. 

"  Oh,  at  myself  !"  explained  Nina.  "  Mr.  Muriel 
has  got  the  joke  on  me." 

After  another  silence,  in  which  Calmire  resumed 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Wahring,  Nina  said  to 
Muriel: 

"  I  would  like  to  know  about  what  Science  says 
of  the  origin  of  the  stars  up  there  and  our  earth 
down  here." 

"Why!  didn't  you  learn  all  that  at  school?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I've  had  a  suspicion  to- 
day that  there  may  be  several  things  that  girls 
don't  learn  at  school." 

He  turned  toward  her  with  an  expression  of  ap- 


The  Neiv  Genesis.  89 

proval,  tinged  with   surprise  and  perplexity,  and 
went  on: 

"Well,  probably  you've  heard  that  this  earth 
and  all  the  stars,  and  everything — even  we  our- 
selves, were  once  very  fine  dust,  finer  than  we  can 
imagine,  diffused  through  space." 

"But,"  she  asked,  "how  did  this  dust  get  to 
be  all  these  things,  if  not  as  the  Bible  says?  God 
even  made  man  out  of  it,  didn't  he?" 

"Man  was  certainly  made  out  of  it,  but  not  in 
the  way  the  Bible  says." 

"Well,  never  mind  that  now.  Tell  me  about  the 
stars." 

"Suppose,"  he   resumed,  "any  quantity  of    the 
dust  you  please.     That  quantity  must  have  a  cen- 
tre of  gravity.     You  know  what  that  is?" 
"Yes,  in  a  sort  of  a  way." 

"And  you  know  that  everything  attracts  every- 
thing else.  You  do  me,  for  instance." 
"But  I  didn't  know  that  you  did  me." 
"  I  do,  little  as  you  may  be  aware  of  it.  Now,  as 
each  particle  of  this  dust  attracts  each  other  par- 
ticle, it  must  all  be  moving  about,  and  no  matter 
how  various  those  motions  are,  they  must  all  tend 
at  length  toward  the  centre  of  gravity,  and  as  the 
dust  rushes  together,  it  must  get  to  whirling 
around  the  centre,  just  as  you've  seen  a  lot  of  dust 
whirled  together  in  a  circle  by  puffs  of  wind  meet- 
ing, haven't  you?" 

"I  remember  noticing  it  in  drifting  snow,"  she 
answered.     "  Oh,  it  was  so  beautiful !" 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  "that  always  reminds  me 
of  the  way  the  heavenly  bodies  were  made:  Those 


go  The  New  Genesis. 

* 

little  eddies  of  snow  or  dust  are  circles,  or  rather 
cylinders,  partly  because  they  are  made  by  only 
two  opposing  currents.  But  suppose  there  were 
no  earth  under  the  dust  in  one  of  those  little  whirl- 
winds, and  currents  were  coming  from  all  sides. 
Don't  you  see  that  they  would  make  the  dust  a 
ball  instead  of  a  cylinder,  and  that  it  would  whirl 
in  the  direction  of  the  strongest  current?  That 
gives  a  notion  how  this  star-dust  rushing  from  all 
directions  took  round  shapes  and  began  turning." 

"But  how  did  it  get  solid?" 

"Slap  your  hands  together  hard,  or  bettor, 
rub  them.  Don't  you  feel  heat?  Well,  all  bodies 
striking  or  rubbing  each  other,  turn  the  force  that 
brings  them  together,  into  heat.  These  masses  of 
star-dust,  jamming  together  with  such  force,  and 
their  particles  rubbing  so  among  themselves,  got 
hotter  than  anything  we  know,  and  became  great 
glowing  masses.  The  biggest  ones  are  not  all 
cooled  off  yet.  You  see  the  sky  full  of  them  burn- 
ing now.  When  the  sun  rises  to-morrow  you'll  feel 
the  heat  of  the  only  big  one  near  enough  to  affect 
us.  Our  earth  is  so  vastly  smaller,  that  it  has  got 
pretty  well  cooled  down  in  comparison,  though  not 
as  cool  as  the  moon  has,  which  is  much  smaller  still." 

"  How  strange!  But  go  on  and  give  me  the  rest 
of  your  genesis." 

"  Am  I  as  interesting  as  Moses  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Such  questions  mustn't  be  encouraged,"  she 
said.  "  Please  go  on.  Why  is  the  moon  so  much 
smaller  than  the  earth  ?" 

"  The  earth  and  the  planets,"  he  answered,  "are 
only  drops  flung  off  from  the  sun  in  revolving,  as 


The  New  Genesis.  91 

• 

drops  fly  off  from  a  wet  base-ball,  and  the  moons 
are  similar  drops  flung  off  from  the  planets.  Very 
tantalizing  things,  those  moons!" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  for  instance,  that's  a  pretty  good  sort  of 
a  moon  up  there,  so  far  as  I  know,  but  they've  got 
half  a  dozen  or  so  out  in  Jupiter;  and  even  poor 
little  Mars,  they've  found  out  lately,  has  two  or 
three.  Now  what  jolly  nights  they  must  have 
there — lovers  especially!  A  girl  for  each  moon,  I 
suppose." 

"You're  a  very  improper  young  man." 

"Very!  And  those  canals  in  Mars!  Why  don't 
the  magazines  publish  illustrated  articles  of  trips 
on  them  ?" 

"Ah, "she  laughed,  "it's  rather  an  out-of-the- 
way  place  to  get  particulars." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that ;  they  send  to  New 
Jersey!  And,"  he  continued,  "there's  Saturn!  I 
wonder  if  they  use  those  rings  for  race-tracks  ! 
Just  imagine — the  whole  planet  for  a  grand  stand, 
and  the  rings  for  courses." 

"How  far  is  it  from  the  planet  to  the  rings?" 
she  asked. 

"  Blest  if  I  know,"  he  answered. 

"  Perhaps,  then,"  she  suggested,  "  the  people 
couldn't  see  across,  and  they  couldn't  see  all  the 
way  around  anyhow." 

"  That's  so.  The  real  dodge  would  be  to  have 
the  track  on  one  ring  and  an  observation  train  on 
the  other,  as  they  do  at  New  London." 

"  How  wide  are  the  rings?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know  that  either." 


92  The  New  Genesis. 

"  Have  you  any  guess  ?" 
"Some  thousands  of  miles." 

"Then  your  race-course  idea  would  appear  a 
little  extravagant." 

"Yes,  my  ideas  often  are.  Wouldn't  give  much 
for  'em  if  they  were  not." 

"  But  as  they  are,  I  suppose  they  justify  very 
large  investment." 

He  was  not  used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  especially 
when  he  was  condescending  to  try  to  make  himself 
agreeable,  and  he  did  not  like  it.  But  he  was  too 
taken  by  surprise  to  assume  the  offensive  without  a 
moment's  deliberation ;  and  that  deliberation  ended 
with  an  indolent,  good-natured,  self-satisfied  as- 
sumption that  perhaps  she  did  not  mean  it  after 
all.  She,  too,  was  not  ill-naturedly  disposed,  and 
had  no  wish  whatever  to  be  pert.  So  after  a  little 
she  resumed  amiably: 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Muriel,  that  among  so  many 
ideas  you  are  occasionally  visited  by  a  serious 
one  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  known  to  have  spasms  of  that 
kind." 

"Do  they  hurt  you  much?" 

"  Well,  yes,  sometimes  they  rather  do." 

"  In  my  limited  reading,  I  have  encountered  a 
few  geniuses  who  seemed  to  like  to  consider  their 
great  thoughts  a  burden  and  a  pain.  Are  you 
troubled  in  that  way?" 

As  she  had  classed  him  with  the  geniuses,  whether 
she  meant  it  or  not,  he  did  not  get  angry,  but  took 
up  a  little  of  her  own  tone. 

"  Yes,  my  thoughts  weigh  on  me  almost  as  much 


The  New  Genesis,  93 

as  your  anxieties  about  them  seem  to  weigh  on 
you.  But  why  do  you  want  to  chaff?  Don't  let's 
be  restless.  Let's  enjoy  the  night." 

"  My  homoeopathic  medicine  seems  to  have  done 
its  work  very  well,"  observed  Nina. 

"  Oh,  that  was  it,  was  it  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  if  you  really  could  keep 
serious." 

"  Well,  I  can.  Wasn't  I  serious  long  enough  at 
dinner?" 

"  Somehow,  the  sort  of  thing  you  said  then  al- 
ways impresses  me  as  the  reverse  of  serious.  The 
subject  is  serious;  but  you  don't  really  seem  to 
take  it  in  a  serious  way." 

"You  don't  understand  me  yet,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  do?"  she  answered. 

"Why,  of  course!     I  never  thought  about  that." 

"  It's  worth  thinking  of,"  she  said  in  her  turn, 
and  despite  their  laughter  he  had  a  feeling  that 
Miss  Wahring  was  not  as  thoughtless,  relatively  to 
himself,  as  he  had  several  times  assumed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments,  "whether 
I  understand  myself  or  not,  I  don't  object  to  being 
serious  awhile,  if  you  want  me  to  be;  but  if  we 
talk  seriously  about  the  stars,  I'm  afraid  we'll  get 
to  quarreling  again." 

"  Why?" 

"Because  I  can't  say  much  about  them  without 
pitching  into  Moses,  and  you  appear  to  be  a  friend 
of  his." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  feel  about  the  Old  Testament  quite 
as  I  do  about  the  New,"  she  said.  "  Please  go  on 
and  give  me  the  rest  of  yourGenesis." 


94  The  New  Genesis. 

"  Am  I  as  interesting  as  Moses  ?"  the  boy  repeated. 

"You  give  more  reasons  for  things,"  she  an- 
swered; "but  you  must  not  think  so  much  about 
the  effect  you  produce,  but  go  on  with  your  work. 
You've  only  got  the  universe  filled  with  soft  hot 
balls  so  *ar,  and  it's  not  comfortable." 

"  It  does  not  seem  very  much  as  if  they  had  been 
put  there  'for  a  light  by  day'  and  for  '  lights  by 
night,'  does  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"  They  seem  to  answer  those  purposes  very 
well,"  she  said  quietly;  "  but  aren't  you  ever  going 
to  tell  me  how  the  earth  got  as  it  is  now?" 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  "different  parts  of  the 
matter  were  exposed  to  different  conditions.  All 
was  bubbling  and  seething,  but  that  at  the 
poles  being  less  exposed  to  the  sun's  influence 
than  that  at  the  equator,  was  cooler  ;  and  cur- 
rents were  therefore  setting  to  and  fro.  As  it  all 
went  on  cooling  at  a  variety  of  temperatures,  it 
took  on  a  variety  of  characters  and  shapes.  Some 
became  lava,  some  hard  rock,  some  softer  rock, 
some  even  water.  Great  cracks  and  ridges  came 
— canyons  and  mountain  ranges.  In  short,  a  crust 
came  over  the  earth  like  the  crust  on  a  custard 
cooling  in  a  dish,  even  to  the  puddles  of  water 
that  you  sometimes  see  on  the  surface  of  the  cus- 
tard, which  will  do  for  our  oceans,  and  the  ridges 
that  it  has  cracked  into,  which  will  do  for  our 
mountains  and  water-sheds. 

"  Now,"  he  continued,  "  if  you  were  to  leave  that 
custard  standing  a  few  days,  you'd  find  some  mould 
coming  over  its  surface.  That  mould  is  organic 
matter — matter  with  life." 


The  New  Genesis.  95 

"How  strange!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  how  did 
life  come  on  the  earth  ?" 

"  In  some  such  fashion  as  mould  comes  over  cus- 
tard, I  suppose,  only  much  simpler  than  cus- 
tard mould,  which  is  quite  a  complex  substance 
— probably  in  some  such  state  as  the  substance 
we  call  protoplasm,  out  of  which  all  plants  and 
animals  are  made.  From  some  such  substance, 
we've  reason  to  believe,  all  living  beings  have  been 
evolved  by  slow  changes  from  generation  to  gener- 
ation. To  put  it  very  roughly,  suppose  that  sub- 
stance to  become  worms;  the  worms,  tadpoles;  the 
tadpoles,  frogs;  the  frogs,  as  they're  such  good 
jumpers,  we'll  suppose  to  live  more  and  more  on 
land,  until  their  descendants  become  little  chaps 
like  kangaroos;  then  suppose  the  little  kangaroos 
to  split  into  two  families,  one  becoming,  in  time, 
the  kangaroos  we  know,  and  the  others,  we'll  say — 
well,  for  alliteration's  sake,  Calmires." 

"  Your  uncle  doesn't  seem  much  like  it,"  ob- 
served Nina,  "  whatever  you  may  assert  regarding 
other  members  of  the  family.  I  don't  think  I 
like  it." 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  need  object  unless  he 
does,"  said  Muriel.  "  He's  rather  proud  of  the  way 
the  family  has  got  ahead." 

"That's  one  way  to  look  at  it,"  said  Nina. 

•'  Yes,"  he  assented,  "  but  the  theologians  haven't 
taken  that  way,  but  have  fought  every  step  of  dis- 
covery all  the  way  up.  They  didn't  wait  for  pro- 
toplasm though,  but  shut  up  Galileo,  you  know, 
for  asserting  that  the  earth  itself  moved." 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  those  were  bigoted  Catholics 


96  The  New  Genesis. 

hundreds  of  years  ago.     There's  nothing  like  that, 
now." 

"  Nothing  so  extreme,  perhaps,  but  enough  that's 
exactly  like  it.  The  clergy  raised  the  mischief  in 
the  first  half  of  this  century  over  the  discoveries  of 
geology  which  proved  the  absurdity  of  the  Mosaic 
record  of  this  earth.  But  they've  given  up  that 
fight  now,  as  well  as  the  astronomical  one.  They 
are  fighting  still,  however,  over  the  discovery  that 
all  living  beings,  but  the  lowest,  were  evolved  from 
inferior  ancestors.  That  is  the  fundamental  prop- 
osition of  the  Darwinism  that  they  dread  and  hate 
so  much.  But  the  evidence  is  too  strong  for  them, 
and  they  are  slowly  and  meanly,  not  manfully, 
giving  up  that  fight.  They  make  their  stand  now, 
on  the  question  of  whether  living  matter  was 
evolved  trom  dead  matter.  They  make  this  fight 
despite  the  fact  that  their  prophet,  Moses,  asserts 
that  it  was, — asserts  it  specifically  regarding  man 
and  by  implication  regarding  all  other  creatures — 
except  woman,  whom  even  he  recognized  as  some- 
thing superior.  He  doesn't  assert  an  evolution, 
though,  but  a  creation." 

"  What's  the  difference  ?" 

"Why,  one  asserts  the  arbitrary  making  of 
something  out  of  nothing,  or  at  least  the  sudden 
change  of  something  into  something  entirely  dif- 
ferent, like  the  sudden  making  of  a  man  out  of 
earth,  as  the  ancients  thought  Prometheus  made 
him,  or  as  most  Christian  people  think  their  God 
made  him.  Evolution  asserts  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  occasional  catastrophes,  like  volcanic  erup- 
tions and  earthquakes  and  hurricanes,  there  are  no 


The  Neiv  Genesis.  97 

sudden  changes  in  nature;  and  that  there  are  no 
arbitrary  ones  whatever — that  everything  occurs 
under  the  uniform  and  majestic  control  of  law, 
even  the  earthquakes  and  hurricanes  and  death 
itself;  and  that  life  in  all  its  forms,  nay,  even 
the  colossal  things  which  have  no  life — that 
river  and  those  hills  and  the  whole  earth  and 
the  stars  and  all  we  see — and  even  all  we  know 
and  think  and  feel,  grew  up  by  changes  gradual, 
imperceptible,  as  those  which  turn  the  seed  into 
the  tree,  or  the  dust  into  this  beautiful  and  glow- 
ing universe." 

As  the  boy  spoke,  the  girl  had  gradually  turned 
toward  him,  and  when  he  moved  upon  her  the  eyes 
which  had  been  dreamily  peering  over  earth  and 
sky,  he  half  started  at  the  gaze  of  surprised  inter- 
est with  which  she  was  regarding  him. 

"  Why,  it's  grand  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  If  you  believe  it,  you'll  be  damned,"  graciously 
observed  the  young  gentleman. 

"  Oh,  why  will  you  talk  so!"  she  exclaimed,  dis- 
appointed and  grieved.  "  Nobody  believes  that  way 
now.' 

"  You  never  lived  South,  did  you  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Or  anywhere  else  twenty  years  ago,"  added 
Calmire,  whose  attention  their  raised  voices  had 
attracted. 

"  Not  that  I  can  remember,"  Nina  replied. 

"  Well,"  Muriel  resumed,  "  there's  no  telling  what 
people  believe  nowadays;  they've  got  a  lot  of  creeds 
and  confessions  of  faith  that  were  made  Lord 
knows  how  many  years  ago.  And  you,  most  of 
you,  hang  on  to  churches  that  profess  to  believe 
them  all,  and  yet  you  yourselves  profess  not  to. 


98  The  New  Genesis. 

I  don't  know  what  you  call  such  inconsistent  posi- 
tions, but  I  don't  call  them  honest  !" 

"  Now  you're  getting  polite  again!"  Nina  remon- 
strated. 

"Well,  I  declare  such  positions  are  not  entitled 
to  polite  treatment!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Suppose  I'm  honest,  but  stupid  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"  Miss  Wahring !"  and  he  turned  toward  her. 
"Well,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  what  you  are! 
But  if  begging  your  pardon  is  to  admit  that  you're 
stupid,  I  won't  do  it." 

"  But  aren't  there  two  ways  of  saying  disagree- 
able things?"  she  asked. 

"You've  just  illustrated  it  very  prettily,"  he  an- 
swered. "  But  I  never  thought  of  it  before." 

"  It's  worth  thinking  of,"  she  said. 

"Now  you've  got  the  joke  back,"  he  exclaimed. 
"That's  the  third  time  you've  said  that  to-day." 

"  Was  I  right  each  time  ?"  she  asked.  "  Are  you 
going  to  think  of  all  those  things?" 

"  Maybe.  But  I  can't  practice  the  mealy  way  of 
saying  things  to-night,  for  we're  almost  home." 

Before  eleven,  their  good  horses  had  brought 
them  to  Fleuvemont.  The  ladies  said  good-night 
as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  house.  To  Calmire's 
exhortation  not  to  hurry  off,  Nina  replied  : 

"  I  never  was  so  tired  in  my  life.  I  never  in  one 
day  heard  so  many  new  things." 

"  Why,  there's  no  particular  novelty  in  anything 
that's  been  going  on  to-day,"  said  Calmire. 

"  New  to  me.  Very  new.  Aren't  you  people 
going  to  let  me  rest  in  any  of  my  own  ways  ?  I'll 
have  to  run  away  from  you." 


The  New  Genesis.  99 

"  1  should  be  sorry  if  our  ways  brought  upon  us 
any  such  result  as  that.  You'll  get  used  to  them. 
They're  not  so  bad." 

"They're  not  unkind,"  said  she  as  she  gave  him 
her  hand  in  parting.  "  That  is,  not  so  very,"  as 
she  turned  toward  Muriel. 

Mrs.  Wahring.  although  no  more  in  sympathy 
than  Nina,  and  by  nature  not  as  much,  with  most 
that  had  been  said  during  the  day,  was  old  enough 
to  have  become  somewhat  used  to  hearing  views 
not  her  own.  Though  not  seriously  fatigued,  she 
followed  her  daughter,  saying  as  she  departed,  "  If 
you  don't  tire  my  child  to  death,  I'm  afraid  you'll 
make  a  pagan  of  her." 

"  Do  you  so  dislike  pagans,  dear  madam  ?"  asked 
Calmire. 

"Not  all  of  them.     Good-night." 

Nina  spoke  truly  when  she  said  that  she  was  tired 
with  new  impressions.  She  was  too  tired  to  sleep, 
and  as  she  lay  awake  pondering  things  of  which 
some  were  very  serious,  one  question  in  varying 
shapes,  dominated  all  the  rest — "  Are  that  boy  who 
used  bad  langage  and  was  impolite;  the  man  who 
told  me  so  many  deep  things  as  we  drove  home; 
the  vainglorious  fellow  who  tooted  his  cornet  so 
deftly  before  the  villagers;  the  elegant  young  gen- 
tleman at  dinner  who  said  so  many  frivolous  things 
and  so  many  profound  ones,  if  they  were  bad;  the 
young  jack-a-dandy  on  the  piazza  this  morning; 
the  grand  creature  who  stalked  down  the  staircase 
last  night, — are  they  all,  can  they  all,  be  the  same 
person  ?  Which  is  he  really  ?  Well,  I'm  sorry 
for  the  one  in  the  T-cart  who  grew  up  without  a 
mother  or  a  home!  ' 


CHAPTER    XII. 

WILFUL     WOMAN. 

FOR  the  next  morning,  a  sail  on  the  river  was* 
arranged.  The  wagonette  was  at  the  door  an  houi 
after  breakfast.  After  the  ladies  and  certain  lunch- 
baskets  were  handed  in,  Muriel  said  he  would 
drive,  and  placed  himself  beside  the  coachman 
instead  of  in  the  seat  next  herself,  which  Miss  Nina 
had  always  been  used  to  consider  a  point  of  ambi- 
tion to  any  young  gentleman  who  might  be  in  her 
society. 

Muriel  did  not  really  care  about  driving,  though 
he  was  very  fond  of  riding;  but  somehow  this 
morning  he  felt  tired  of  enduring  this  young 
woman's  habit  of  shying  at  observations  of  his 
that  he  thought  were  harmless  and,  he  flattered 
himself,  profound.  Reaching  the  dock,  he  went 
around  and  helped  the  ladies  out,  and  did  his  share 
of  duty  with  the  parasols  and  wraps. 

"  Now,  Nina,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring,  as 
soon  as  they  had  got  aboard,  "  do  take  care  of  your 
complexion." 

Nina  turned  toward  Muriel  and  said  sotto  voce: 
"Mr.  Muriel,  do  you  think  I  might  venture  to  ob- 
serve, in  the  manner  I've  learned  from  you — '  Bother 
my  complexion  ! '  ?" 

"  Miss  Wahring,  I  think  such  an  observation 
would  do  you  infinite  credit.  But  don't  quote  my 


Wilful  Woman.  101 

opinion  to  your  mother."  And  he  wondered  what 
made  her  manner  a  little  more  intimate  than  it 
had  been  most  of  the  day  before. 

They  were  under  way  almost  immediately,  sail- 
ing with  a  fair  wind  directly  up  the  river. 

Not  long  after  they  had  started,  while  Calmire 
was  forward  in  conference  with  the  cook,  Nina 
turned  from  Muriel,  who  was  teasing  her  by  per- 
sistent refusals  to  take  seriously  anything  she 
might  say,  and  said:  "Captain,  I  want  to  steer. 
I've  been  watching  you,  and  I  can  do  it." 

"  Well,  if  we  were  at  sea,  Miss,  I  wouldn't  mind 
letting  you  try.  That's  where  you  ought  to  learn. 
There's  too  many  craft  along  here." 

"  Why,  it's  perfectly  easy.  You  just  turn  the 
wheel  in  the  direction  you  want  the  boat  to  go. 
I'm  not  such  a  baby  as  to  be  unable  to  do  that. 
Tell  the  Captain  I'm  not,  Mr.  Muriel." 

"  Captain,  Miss  Wahring  is  not  such  a  baby  as 
to  be  unable  to  turn  a  wheel  in  the  direction  she 
wishes  the  boat  to  go." 

"  Oh,  stop  laughing  at  me,  and  make  the  Captain 
let  me  do  it." 

"It's  not  generally  found  expedient  to  make 
Captain  Conroy  do  anything,  unless  his  judgment 
approves,  on  a  vessel  where  he  commands,"  said 
Muriel,  with  a  smile  toward  the  Captain  which 
awakened  an  answering  smile,  as  Muriel's  smiles 
almost  always  did.  "  I  think  you'd  find  it  easier  to 
coax  him." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  to  be  treated  like  a  child. 
Captain,  don't  you  think  I  can  do  that  simple 
thing?" 


IO2  Wilful  Woman. 

"I  don't  know  about  the  simple  things,  Miss. 
Whenever  I  hear  of  simple  things  I'm  apt  to  think 
of  our  cruise  down  Florida-way  three  years  ago. 
There  was  one  of  Mr.  Calmire's  friends  on  board, 
an  artist — a  very  great  man  I  knew  he  must  be 
before  anybody  told  me,  though  he  never  seemed 
to  have  very  much  to  say,  except  once  in  a  while 
at  table.  Well,  the  first  few  times  I  stood  over  him 
while  he  was  at  work,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  do  it  too." 

"  Well,  painting  a  picture  and  steering  a  boat  are 
two  very  different  things." 

"  Yes,  Miss,  it  takes  a  great  man  to  do  one  well, 
and  a  very  common  man  can  do  the  other  well;  but 
it  doesn't  follow  that  a  young  lady  can  do  either 
without  practice." 

Muriel  held  up  his  right  hand  and  said,  "  Please, 
ma'am,  may  I  laugh  out  in  school  ?" 

"  No  !  you — "  But  his  eyes  met  hers  with 
an  expression  that  had  already  more  than  once 
stopped  the  utterance  of  such  a  sentence  as  she 
had  begun.  She  turned  again  to  the  Captain. 
"Captain,  I  flatter  myself  I've  as  much  sense  as  a 
very  common  man." 

"There's  different  kinds  of  sense,  Miss.  You 
have  as  much  will  as  some  uncommon  men,  if 
you'll  let  me  say  so.  But  it  would  be  a  good  deal 
easier  to  oblige  you  than  not  to.  I'll  leave  it  to 
Mr.  Calmire.  Here  he  comes." 

"Mr.  Calmire,"  said  Nina,  "Captain  Conroy 
doubts  if  I  can  turn  that  wheel  to  the  left  when 
I  want  the  boat  to  go  to  the  left,  and  to  the  right 
when  I  want  it  to  go  to  the  right.  I  hope  you 
don't  agree  with  him." 


Wilful  Woman.  103 

"  Miss  Nina,  I've  seen  some  of  the  strongest  and 
bravest  men  that  live,  fail  in  doing  jhat  very  simple 
thing  under  very  simple  circumstances.  It's  not  a 
question  of  intelligence,  but  of  habit:  one  who  has 
to  stop  to  think  about  it  before  doing  it,  may  fail." 

"Oh,  well,  there's  no  danger  here,  Mr.  Calmire. 
The  Captain  says  I  may  try  it  if  you'll  let  me;"  and 
she  looked  up  at  him  in  the  confident  though  can- 
did way  that  he  had  once  or  twice  before  failed  to 
resist,  and  which,  with  one  or  two  other  considera- 
tions, made  it  such  hard  work  for  Muriel  to  hate  her. 

When  Calmire  was  lazy,  he  was  very  lazy;  and  he 
began  this  day,  determined  to  do  his  capable  best 
in  that  direction.  The  resources  of  his  nature 
which  made  him  resolute  and  even  imperious,  on 
occasion,  were  off  duty.  He  said: 

"  Oh,  well,  if  the  Captain  says  so,"  and  seated 
himself  on  the  low  cabin  deck  in  the  shadow  of  the 
sail,  on  the  other  side  of  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"Confound  that  girl!"  muttered  Muriel,  as  he 
walked  forward  to  speak  to  the  sailors;  "she'll  be 
getting  us  into  trouble  yet." 

Some  time  later,  as  he  happened  to  be  looking 
astern,  he  found  himself  almost  spell-bound  gazing 
at  her  graceful  figure  relieved  against  the  beauti- 
ful blending  of  blue  water  and  green  hills,  the 
harmony  of  color  being  filled  by  her  red-gold 
hair,  as  some  of  its  ends  had  been  pulled  down 
and  blown  outward  by  the  breeze. 

"What's  the  reason,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"that  I  love  all  beautiful  things  but  beautiful 
women  ?  I  never  met  one  yet  who  wasn't  a  discord 
when  you  came  to  strike  all  her  tones." 


IO4  Wilful  Woman. 

"  Hard  aport  !"  yelled  a  sailor  in  the  bow.  But 
it  was  too  late,  or  Nina  made  it  so.  They  were 
nearing  the  end  of  a  pier,  where  the  man  at  the 
bow  had  seen,  through  the  piles,  a  light  wherry 
pulled  by  two  men  shooting  like  an  arrow  out  into 
the  river.  Muriel  saw  it  and  rushed  back  for  the 
wheel.  Nina  did  not  understand  the  cry,  but  invol- 
untarily pulled  the  wheel  toward  her;  but  this 
threw  the  rudder  just  where  the  sailor  did  not 
mean  it  should  go,  and  in  six  seconds  the  wherry 
was  cut  in  two.  Unluckily,  the  Captain  had  gone 
below  for  a  moment,  and  Muriel  reached  the 
wheel. 

"  Go  'way'"  he  shouted  almost  angrily,  seized  the 
spokes,  and  brought  the  boat  around  into  the  wind. 

The  craft  was  now  motionless,  with  canvas  quiv- 
ering. They  could  see  a  dark  mass  on  the  water 
about  a  hundred  yards  South  of  them. 

Soon  they  could  see  one  man  with  his  right  arm 
over  what  appeared  to  be  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
wherry,  and  with  his  left  supporting  the  other 
man,  who  was  nearly  submerged. 

"Ah,  he's  gone,"  said  Calmire,  as  they  approached 
the  spot. 

Calmire 's  lazy  spell  was  over  for  that  day.  "We 
can't  get  there  without  a  couple  of  short  tacks. 
Give  the  Captain  the  wheel,  Muriel,  and  bring  the 
log-line  here." 

Calmire  then  threw  off  his  outer  clothing  and 
boots  and  said: 

"Muriel,  now  tie  that  line  under  my  arms;  let 
the  men  take  care  of  it,  and  pull  me  up  if  I  give 
three  tugs.  You  stand  by  with  your  watch,  and 


Wilful  Woman.  105 

think  of  nothing  but  letting  me  stay  under  for  half 
a  minute,  and  no  more,  if  go  I  must.  There  are  two 
of  them  floating  there  not.  No,  boy!"  he  added 
peremptorily  as  he  noticed  something  in  Muriel's 
face.  "  You  mustn't  try  it.  It's  my  work.  Lie  to, 
Captain." 

The  boat's  speed  slackened,  and  the  Captain 
brought  them  so  close  to  the  man  still  above  water 
that  the  sailors  hauled  him  on  board  too  exhausted 
to  speak.  At  the  same  moment,  Calmire  dived. 
The  boat  was  virtually  still,  and  the  Captain  had 
already  ordered  the  sails  lowered.  Fortunately, 
it  was  slack  tide  and  they  were  well  in  shore  out 
of  the  current.  Calmire  appeared  at  the  surface, 
swimming  easily.  He  said: 

"  Help  me  aboard.  I'll  get  down  better  if  I  dive 
again." 

As  they  pulled  him  up  he  said: 

"  Be  careful  not  to  let  any  tangle  get  in  that 
rope;  and  if  you  find  any  slack,  haul  it  up  gently." 

He  was  over  again  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to 
tell  it,  and  they  all  watched  the  rope  in  breathless 
suspense.  Several  times  the  bystanders  said  to 
Muriel,  "Isn't  it  time  yet  ?"  He  held  his  watch 
and  said,  "  No,  he  is  still  moving." 

Twenty-two  seconds  elapsed, when  all  swaying  of 
the  rope  ceased.  Three  regular  tugs  were  given  to  it. 

"  Bring  him  up!"  said  Muriel.  "  Haul !  Steady! 
Don't  jerk." 

Half  a  dozen  regular  hauls  brought  Calmire  to 
the  surface,  and  in  his  arms,  insensible,  a  young 
man  with  light  hair  and  beard,  the  latter  partly 
concealing  an  ugly  bruise  on  the  right  side  of  his 
face.  As  soon  as  Muriel  saw  his  face,  he  said  : 


:o6  Wilful  Woman. 

"Great  God!     It's  Courtenay!" 

As  soon  as  both  were  on  board,  the  spell  that 
had  held  all  tongues  was  relaxed. 

"  Silence!"  said  Calmire,  panting,  his  voice  faint, 
but  so  clear  that  they  all  heard  it.  "  We  can't  have 
anything  misunderstood  here.  Give  me  a  glass  of 
brandy." 

Nina,  uttering  her  first  word  since  the  accident, 
impulsively  said  to  Calmire  in  awe-struck  tones,  "  I 
did  it.  It's  my  fault.  Why  wouldn't  I  listen  to  you  ?" 

Calmire  merely  responded,  "  I  hope  he's  all  right 
yet."  And  then,  turning  to  Mrs.  Wahring,  added, 
"  Take  your  daughter  below." 

"  No!  I  did  it,  and  I  must  stay  here  and  see  the 
end  of  it,"  expostulated  Nina. 

"  Cousin  Hilda,"  said  Calmire, "  take  your  daugh- 
ter below.  She'd  find  it  embarrassing  here.  Please 
send  Muriel  to  me  with  your  smelling-salts." 

And  he  set  his  men  to  stripping  the  upper  part 
of  the  body. 

"Sha'n't  we  roll  him  over  a  barrel,  sir,  and  get 
the  water  out  of  him  ?"  inquired  the  Captain. 

"  Not  unless  you  want  to  finish  him,"  said  Cal- 
mire. "Here,  boys,"  he  continued,  "dry  him  and 
lay  him  on  the  cabin  deck,  face  downward.  Keep 
away  from  his  feet  until  you  can  put  blankets  on 
them.  Put  his  right  arm  under  his  forehead.  Give 
me  a  handkerchief." 

He  took  it  and  turning  the  young  man's  head, 
gently  wiped  out  his  mouth.  The  brandy  came — 
a  small  tumbler  of  it — and  Calmire  swallowed  it 
at  a  gulp.  It  had  not  come  any  too  soon,  for  he 
was  very  weak  and  had  begun  to  shiver. 


Wilful  Woman.  107 

"Here,  Sandy  Campbell,"  he  called,  "give  me 
your  snuff  box." 

He  applied  a  pinch  to  the  patient's  nostrils:  but 
there  was  no  inspiration  to  carry  it  to  the  sensitive 
spots.  Muriel  appeared  with  the  smelling-salts. 
Calmire  seized  the  vial,  saying,  "This  is  better." 
But  they,  too,  produced  no  effect.  "This  is  seri- 
ous," he  murmured;  and  set  to  work  with  them  on 
the  operations  usual  in  such  emergencies — rolling 
the  body  gently  from  side  to  side  with  intervening 
pressure  between  the  shoulder-blades,  and  alter- 
nate dippers  of  hot  and  cold  water  on  the  chest. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Muriel  said:  "  Uncle  Grand, 
there'll  be  two  dead  men  here  if  you  don't  get 
those  wet  things  off." 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  won't  be  one  of  them,  and 
the  exercise  has  set  me  fairly  steaming.  Still,  I 
am  tired.  It's  time  to  change  our  tactics,  though. 
I  guess  we've  rolled  all  the  water  out  of  him  that 
we  can." 

Then  he  told  them  to  dry  the  patient  where  the 
dippers  of  water  had  been  dashed  over  him,  and 
himself  took  hold  of  both  arms  a  little  above  the 
elbow  and  began  artificial  respiration  by  slowly 
extending  them  above  the  head  and  alternately 
restoring  them  to  the  sides,  while  he  set  a  couple 
of  men  chafing  the  body,  under  the  blanket,  but 
would  not  let  them  touch  the  chest,  for  fear  of 
impeding  breathing. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  let  Muriel  take  his  place 
and  said:  "  Captain,  we  must  make  sail  and  get 
out  of  this,  or  we'll  be  overrun  by  these  people 
from  the  shore.  Don't  let  any  of  them  come 


io8  Wilful  Woman. 

aboard.  The  mainsail  will  fill  to  the  port,  so  we 
can  go  on  without  swinging  the  boom  over  our 
man.  Keep  on,  Muriel.  We  may  have  a  couple 
of  hours  of  this  before  we  can  be  sure." 

Then  he  sent  below  for  some  clothes  and  changed 
himself  on  deck,  refusing  to  quit  his  patient. 

The  Captain  soon  took  Muriel's  place  at  the  ar- 
tificial respiration,  and  said  to  Calmire: 

"  Guess  this  feller's  time's  about  come." 

"Why  work  on  him,  then,  Captain?"  asked  Mu- 
riel. "  If  he  has  a  time  set,  nothing  you  can  do 
will  change  it." 

"Well,  mebbe  he  hasn't,"  said  the  Captain;  and 
increased  his  vigor. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  half-hour,  Calmire  noticed 
something  in  the  patient  which,  after  a  little  close 
scrutiny,  led  him  to  say,  "Stop,  Captain  ;  I  think 
he's  breathing  !  He  is  !" 

Muriel  had  been  in  the  cabin  at  intervals,  to  re- 
assure the  ladies.  When  he  saw  the  patient,  he 
exclaimed,  "Why,  he's  alive!  I  must  go  right 
back  and  tell  that  poor  girl.  She's  in  torture !" 

"  It's  too  uncertain  yet,"  said  Calmire.  "  Keep 
on  working  over  him  !" 

The  breathing  continued,  and  the  face  gradually 
assumed  a  natural  color.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  Calmire  said  to  Muriel: 

"  He's  saved.     You  may  tell  Miss  Wahring." 

Calmire  poured  a  few  drops  of  warm  water  into 
Courtenay's  mouth.  There  seemed  to  be  an  effort 
to  swallow. 

"That's  good!"  said  Calmire.  "Bring  some 
brandy." 


Wilful  Woman.  109 

Soon  Nina,  followed  by  her  mother,  rushed  on 
deck  and  up  to  the  spot. 

"Ah,  he  is  gotng  to  live!"  she  cried  to  Calmire, 
as  she  ran  up  with  her  hands  clenched  before  her, 
while  the  men  made  way.  She  bent  over  the 
patient's  face  as  if  all  her  fate  were  in  it. 

After  a  minute  or  two,  in  which  Calmire  con- 
tinued his  ministrations,  Courtenay  moved  a  hand 
to  the  bruise  on  his  face,  and  Nina,  still  bending 
over  him,  impulsively  seized  the  hand.  In  another 
minute  he  half-opened  his  eyes,  but  after  a  moment 
more,  closed  them,  as  if  dazzled  and  bewildered. 
But  soon  he  opened  them  full  upon  the  radiant 
face  above  him  with  its  intense  and  anxious  happi- 
ness and  its  halo  of  glowing  hair,  all  standing  out 
from  the  wondrous  blue  of  the  Summer  sky.  The 
sufferer's  features  gradually  took  expression,  at 
first  of  surprise,  and  soon  of  sudden  rapture,  and 
he  faintly  murmured  : 

"At  last,  Heaven!" 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

NEW    FORESHADOWINGS    FROM    OLD    QUESTIONS. 

NINA'S  religious  faith  had  been  mainly  an  aesthetic 
matter.  The  words  of  the  chanted  services  in  the 
church  she  had  forsaken  her  mother's  to  attend, 
she  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  ;  and  what 
reading  she  had  given  her  Bible,  had  been  recep- 
tive rather  than  critical.  The  admirable  things 
she  had  enjoyed,  and  those  that  some  people  have 
questioned,  she  let  go  among  "  the  mysteries" 
which,  she  was  informed,  were  essential  to  a  re- 
ligion,— mysteries  that,  with  the  dim  light  of  the 
churches  and  the  deep,  strange  harmonies  of  some 
of  the  old  chants,  took  their  place  in  the  poetic 
side.  She  had  never  felt  any  need  for  a  strong 
faith,  even  of  the  every-day  kind,  for  she  had,  so 
far,  been  spared  those  assaults  of  temptation,  per- 
plexity, or  sorrow  against  which  the  support  of 
such  a  faith  is  a  defence. 

But  since  the  drive  to  Calmire,  there  had  grown 
up  in  Nina  a  disturbing  curiosity.  She  had  been 
led  to  notice  the  distinction  between  Christ's 
religion  and  the  Church,  but  her  curiosity  was, 
at  first,  only  regarding  the  historical  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  latter.  She  had  been  made  to  realize 
not  only  that  it  was  less  powerful  and  influ- 
ential than  it  had  once  been,  but  also  less  char- 
acterized by  absurdities  and — cruelties.  Stranger 
than  all,  the  longer  it  had  been  away  from  the 
direct  presence  of  its  founder,  the  less  these  ab- 


New  Foreshadowing*  from  Old  Questions.   \  \  i 

surdities  and  cruelties  had  become.  Thought  once 
having  been  directed  to  the  subject,  there  was  cer- 
tainly, in  a  mind  like  hers,  enough  to  think  about. 

It  seemed  astonishing,  even  to  herself,  that  these 
facts,  nearly  all  of  which  she  had  known  before, 
had  not  before  set  her  mind  at  work.  But  that 
might  not  have  seemed  so  strange  if  she  had  real- 
ized how  peculiarly  sheltered  a  young  girl's  life 
often  is  from  that  leaven  of  thought  which,  at  a 
parallel  age,  often  sets  a  young  man's  in  a  ferment. 

The  ferment  in  Nina's,  however,  had  at  last,  in  a 
very  mild  way,  begun.  It  was  not  diminished  by 
the  nervous  shock  of  running  down  Courtenay's 
boat,  and  the  terrible  strain  of  anxiety  that  fol- 
lowed. While  she  had  been  in  the  cabin,  she  had 
prayed,  for  his  resuscitation,  the  first  really  earnest, 
agonized  prayers  she  had  ever  had  cause  to  make. 
To  pray  with  that  new  intensity  was  to  consider 
with  a  new  intensity,  whether  her  prayer  would  be 
answered.  Sometimes,  when  a  paroxysm  of  agon- 
ized entreaty  had  exhausted  itself,  her  mind  would 
not  only  dwell  on  this  question,  but  would  mingle 
with  it  some  of  the  strong  impressions  which  had 
haunted  her  since  the  preceding  night;  and  they  pre- 
vented her  stopping  merely  at  the  question:  "  Will 
my  prayers  be  answered  ?"  and  led  her  to  some 
vague  hint  of  a  deeper  question  that  she  had  never 
asked  herself  before:  "Is  prayer  ever  answered  ?" 
This  doubt  was  so  contrary  to  all  her  habits  of 
mind — she  had  been  so  sheltered  from  even  the 
second-hand  presentations  of  it  as  one  of  the  great 
problems  agitating  the  world,  that  she  hardly  re- 
alized that  it  had  crossed  her  mind  at  all.  But  it 


1 1 2  New  Foreshadowing*  from  Old  Questions. 

had,  and  a  long  and  arduous  mental   revolution 
had  begun. 

The  revolution  was  promoted,  too,  by  a  second 
influence.  As  they  had  looked  back  at  the  boat 
from  the  hill  on  their  way  home,  she  had  said  to 
Calmire,  but  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear,  "  A  very 
stubborn,  wilful,  foolish  girl  steered  that  boat  to- 
day. I  hope  she  learned  something  on  it."  The 
breach  in  her  confidence  in  herself  included  a 
breach,  though  as  yet  unrecognized,  in  her  confi- 
dence in  her  habitual  convictions  ;  and — il  also  did 
a  good  deal  to  soothe  the  antipathy  that  her  wil- 
fulness  had  aroused  in  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire. 


As  soon  as  they  reached  home,  she  went  to  her 
room.  She  lay  there  all  the  next  day  pondering 
many  things,  but  her  vigorous  young  constitution 
asserted  itself,  and  she  appeared  at  dinner  the 
second  night  hardly  the  worse  for  wear. 

As  they  sat  on  the  piazza  after  dinner,  the  faint 
questions  that  Muriel  had  set  workrng  under  her 
mind,  were  brought  to  the  surface  by  one  of  those 
remarks  which  he  was  apt  to  touch  off  like  *the 
fuse  ending  in  a  blast. 

"Uncle  Grand,  what  was  the  sense  in  Captain 
Conroy  saying,  when  we  were  standing  around 
Courtenay  there:  'Guess  his  time's  come'?" 

Nina  shivered,  and  Calmire  noticed  it  and  said  : 

"I  wonder  if  we  hadn't  better  talk  about  some- 
thing else  ?  That  was  a  pretty  hard  pull  on  some 
of  us." 

"  Isn't  that '  something  else,'  Mr.  Calmire  ?"  asked 
Nina,  feeling  that  she,  if  anybody,  had  a  right  to 


New  Foreshadowing*  from  Old  Questions.  1 1 3 

deprecate  Calmire's  kind  intentions.  "  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay  is  safe"  (Calmire  had  brought  over  word  to 
that  effect),  "  and  I  too  would  like  to  know  what 
you  think  about  everybody  having  a  set  '  time  '  to 
die." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  young  lady,  that's  one  form  of  the 
old  question  of  '  fate,  free  will,  foreknowledge  abso- 
lute,' and  I  think  the  same  of  it  that  I  do  of  a  great 
many  other  interesting  questions — that  I  can't 
solve  it,  and  that  nobody  can — not  even  Muriel." 
And  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  arm  in  a  way 
that  made  the  little  irony  affectionate. 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,"  said  Nina,  "  aren't  we  taught 
that  not  a  sparrow  falls  without  the  Divine  knowl- 
edge?" 

"We're  taught  a  good  many  things,"  said  Cal- 
mire. 

"  But  that,"  said  Muriel,  "  isn't  teaching  that  the 
sparrow's  time  is  fixed  beforehand.  I  suspect 
the  sparrow  has  something  to  do  with  it  himself; 
and  for  my  part,  I'd  like  it  better  if  he  didn't  fall  at 
all.  I  don't  see  why  an  infinitely  wise  God  wouldn't 
stop  it,  if  he  were  infinitely  good." 

"  He  didn't  stop  my  boat,"  said  Nina. 

"  And  you  and  Courtenay  are  of  more  conse- 
quence than  many  sparrows?"  queried  Calmire, 
smiling  and  finishing  her  argument. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Muriel.  "  So  why  didn't  God 
stop  her?" 

Nina  turned  inquiringly  toward  Calmire. 

"  I  suppose  you're  aware,  my  boy,"  said  his 
uncle,  "that  you're  talking  nonsense?" 

"No.     Why?" 


114  New  For  eshadowings  from  Old  Questions. 

"Why,  your  terms  don't  mean  anything.  You 
speak  about  '  infinitely  good  '  and  '  infinitely  wise,' 
when  your  word  'infinitely'  is  itself  but  a  confes- 
sion of  ignorance.  It  simply  means,  as  you  know, 
without  limit.  Now  the  only  way  we  can  think  at 
all,  is  within  limits.  We  can't  think  of  'infinite 
goodness  '  and  '  infinite  power.'  " 

"  But  the  words  must  have  been  made  for  some- 
thing, Uncle  Grand." 

"  Yes,  to  express  that  a  thing  is  too  big  for  our 
minds  to  compass:  we  often  need  to  use  them, 
reverently,  for  that.  But  what  nonsense  it  is  to 
say  that  if  one  thing  we  don't  understand  exists 
in  conjunction  with  another  thing  we  don't  under- 
stand,something  we  do  understand  will  be  the  result!" 

"  Give  it  up  !"  said  Muriel,  "and  yet  it  seems  to 
me  that  there  must  be  something  in  what  I  said." 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  intended  to 
say,  but  your  words  were  too  big.  Try  it  again." 

"  Well,"  answered  Muriel  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion, "  apparently  there's  no  God  good  enough  to 
hate  all  pain,  who  has  power  enough  to  stop  it." 

"There  may  be,"  said  Calmire. 

"How?" 

•'There  may  be  one  who  thinks  it  better  in  the 
long-run  to  permit  it." 

"  Why,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Why,  that's  one  of  the  commonplaces  of  theo- 
logical teaching.  He  may  think  pain  is  good  for 
us.  Sometimes  it  unquestionably  is." 

"But,"  insisted  Muriel,  "he  could  do  us  the 
good  without  the  pain,  if  his  power  were  infinite." 

"  There   you're    talking    nonsense    again,"    said 


New  Fore  shadow  ings  from  Old  Questions.  \  1 5 

Calmire.  "What  do  we  know  about  'infinite'? 
All  we  know  is  that  pain  is  here — that  it  sometimes 
does  us  good  to  endure  it,  and  that  it  always  does 
us  good  to  study  Nature's  laws  and  follow  them, 
so  as  to  avoid  it.  I  presume  that's  enough  for 
practical  purposes." 

"Well,  I  suspect  there's  not  much  sense  in  think- 
ing anything  farther  about  it,"  admitted  Muriel. 

"  That's  the  wisest  thing  you've  said  to-day. 
There's  enough  else  to  think  about.  But  I  don't  see 
what  you  children  ever  went  to  Sunday-school  for, 
if  I  have  to  tell  you  these  old  things  over  again." 

"  But  somehow,"  said  Nina,  "  they  come  up  in 
different  ways." 

"  Yes,  in  many,"  said  Calmire,  with  a  far-away 
look. 

After  a  little  pause,  Muriel  turned  and  said  to 
Nina : 

"  I  suppose  you  didn't  like  my  pitching  into 
Christianity  the  other  night?" 

"  Of  course  I  didn't;  though,  to  be  honest,  I  was 
interested  in  the  talk." 

"Of  course,"  he  continued,  "you  consider  the 
church  a  divine  institution — whatever  that  may 
mean  ?" 

"  I  never  happened  to  reflect  before,"  she  an- 
swered, "  upon  how  intensely  human  it  has  been. 
But  its  shortcomings  do  not  affect  the  divine  au- 
thority of  Christ  himself.  And,  by  the  way,  you 
were  not  just,  the  other  night,  when  you  said  that 
he  preached  the  gospel  of  shiftlessness.  Didn't 
he  tell  the  parable  of  the  talents,  and  say:  'To 
him  who  hath  shall  be  given,  and  from  him  who 


Il6   New  Foreshadoivings  from  Old  Questions. 

hath  not,  shall  be  taken  away  that  which  he  hath  '  ?" 

"  And  that,"  said  Calmire,  "  is  as  profound  a  sen 
tence  as  was  ever  uttered." 

"  Well,"  said  Muriel  to  Nina,  "  you've  simply  illus- 
trated his  inconsistency.  You  can't  deny  that,  he  did 
say,  in  a  thousand  ways,  'Take  no  thought  for  the 
morrow,'  as  well  as  the  sentence  you  quoted.  The 
factis,hekeptcontradictinghimself  in  lotsof  things." 

"Haven't  you  yet  realized,"  said  Calmire,  "that 
proverbs  are  too  terse  to  express  more  than  one 
side  of  the  truth  ?  It's  hardly  fair  to  contrast  them. 
Moreover,  those  natures  burning  with  enthusiasm 
(and  Christ  could  not  have  set  the  world  on  fire  if  he 
had  not  been)  don't  trouble  themselves  to  be  consist- 
ent. Their  powerisnotin  makingsystems.  Christ's 
system,  so  far  as  there  is  a  system,  was  made  by  his 
followers.  The  great  moral  geniuses  simply  supply 
the  inspiration.  Look  at  the  greatest  one  that  our 
country  has  had — Emerson.  He  contradicts  him- 
self all  the  time.  Yet  he  probably  has  done  more 
to  set  people  thinking,  and  inspire  them  with  a  de- 
sire to  think  rightly,  than  any  other  American." 

"Well,"  resumed  Muriel  to  Nina,  "admitting  all 
Uncle  Grand  says,  if  there  was  any  supernatural 
power  about  Christ,  it  ought  to  have  kept  him  con- 
sistent,and  kept  hischurch  straight.  Isn'tthatso?" 

"Ah,  that's  beyond  me,"  said  Nina.  "Why  didn't 
God  keep  Mr.  Courtenay's  boat  out  of  my  way?" 

"Or  yours  out  of  his,"  said  considerate  Muriel. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  submissively — a  new  thing  in  her. 

"  Look  here  !"  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  It  wasn't 
decent  in  me  to  say  that,  and  I  beg  your  pardon." 

This  was  a  new  thing  in  him,  and  her  look  and 


New  Foreshadowing*  from  Old  Questions.   \  \  7 

smile  made  him  think  that  it  was  a  thing  worth- 
while. After  a  little  deliberation  she  said: 

"  But  now,  my  impetuous  friend,  what  do  you 
make  out  this  great  fact  of  Christianity  to  be  ?" 

"  Simply,"  he  answered,  "  the  best,  and  one  of  the 
latest,  of  dozens  of  great  moral  inspirations  which 
have  affected  large  portions  of  mankind." 

"  It  might  be  just  as  well  to  add,"  said  Calmire, 
"  that  those  lessons  in  morality,  wherever  they 
started,  have  pretty  generally  reached  us  through 
Christianity,  and  been  enormously  developed  and 
emphasized  in  the  process." 

"But  were  they  all  in  some  shape  in  the  false 
religions?"  asked  Nina. 

"  There  are  no  false  religions,  my  child,"  an- 
swered Calmire. 

"  Just  as  there's  no  bad  whiskey,"  Muriel  broke 
in. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Calmire,  "  it's  certainly  one 
of  the  great  consolations  of  growing  old,  to  find 
constant  crops  of  you  fresh  young  things  to  whom 
the  old  stories  are  new.  It's  yours,  Muriel." 

So  Muriel  told  it,  and  went  on  to  say: 

"And  it's  about  as  true  of  religions  as  it  is  of 
whiskey.  There  is  bad  whiskey,  and  how  about 
Baal  and  Juggernaut  and  the  thugs?" 

"  Yes,  and  you  might  add  indulgences  and  the 
inquisition  and  witch-burnings,"  said  Calmire. 
"  Yet  they  are  only  excrescences  on  the  religions." 

"Well,  sometimes,"  said  Muriel,  "the  excres- 
cences are  bigger  than  the  thing  itself,  and  have 
done  more  harm  than  the  religions  themselves  ever 
did  good." 


Ii8   New  Forcshadowings  from  Old  Questions. 

"Possibly  in  a  few  cases,"  said  Calmire,  "but  I 
doubt  it." 

"And, "said  Muriel,  "  when  I  think  of  Christi- 
anity having  Alexander  Borgia  for  chief  priest, 
imprisoning  Galileo,  burning  Bruno,  and  meddling 
with  all  the  schools  to-day,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm 
not  tempted  to  include  Christianity  in  the  number." 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  "  when  you  think  of  only 
that  side.  Galileo  and  Bruno  seem  to  have  taken 
very  strong  possession  of  your  mind  lately." 

"Yes,  they  have,"  said  Muriel,  "and  that  side's 
big  enough  to  make  it  high  time  the  church  were 
done  away  with." 

"  Of  course  you  don't  mean  that  you  want  its 
moral  teachings  to  disappear?"  said  Calmire. 

"  Well,  the  shiftless  side  of  them  has  pretty  well 
disappeared  already,  I  suppose,"  answered  Muriel, 
•'and  if  they'd  only  keep  their  fingers  off  of  knowl- 
edge, the  rest  may  be  good  enough.  But  they're 
always  interfering  outside  of  morals,  to  keep  up 
their  confounded  dogmas." 

Nina  looked  inquiringly  at  Calmire. 

"  There  are  many  dogmas  that  must  go,  my 
child,"  he  said,  "just  as  so  many  have  gone 
already.  But  Christianity  holds  much  that  can- 
not go — some  of  it  much  older  than  Christ  or  Moses. 
The  disappearance  of  the  churches  would  not  be 
the  disappearance  of  that.  Already  its  existence 
is  far  from  dependent  on  the  churches." 

"Well,  I  should  rather  think  it  is  'far  from  de- 
pendent on  the  churches  '  !"  exclaimed  Muriel.  "  I 
don't  believe  the  world  was  ever  as  good  as  it  is  to- 
day. Look  at  those  people  in  the  back  towns  of  New 


New  Foreshadowings  from  Old  Questions.  \  \  9 

England:  there's  not  a  more  honest  set  of  people 
on  earth ;  and  yet  the  religious  papers  are  full 
of  complaints  that  they  won't  go  to  church,  and  of 
schemes  to  make  them  go — sociables,  club-houses, 
cornets  and  chromos.  The  chromo  has  always 
been  a  favorite  means  of  getting  the  children  to 
Sunday-school  :  now  they  have  to  try  it  to  get 
the  parents  to  church.  Fact  is,  the  institution  is 
playing  out." 

"You're  simply  the  most  dreadful  young  man  I 
ever  saw,"  said  Nina.  "  You  don't  talk  like  this, 
Mr.  Calmire;  where  did  he  learn  it?" 

Mrs.  Wahring  now  appeared,  and  after  some 
general  chat,  the  ladies  said  good-night.  Calmire 
then  said  to  Muriel: 

"  You're  doing  that  girl  a  doubtful  service  in 
disturbing  her  mind  on  these  questions." 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Muriel;  "  I  find 
them  great  fun.  And  I'm  getting  sicker  and  sicker 
of  orthodoxy:  the  more  I  hear,  the  more  absurdities 
I  hear." 

"  Well,"  said  Calmire,  "  there's  no  way  to  stop 
fools  from  preaching,  but  isn't  it  rather  hard  on 
a  system  to  judge  it  from  what  any  fool  sees  fit  to 
say  about  it?" 

"  I  never  heard  a  man  preach  it  who  didn't  talk 
nonsense,"  said  Muriel. 

"  You  mean  some  nonsense,"  replied  his  uncle. 
"  I've  heard  Christian  preachers  talk  a  great  deal 
of  sense." 

"  Yes,  so  have  I  sometimes.  But  the  nonsense 
predominates  so  that  at  last  I've  broken  with  the 
whole  thing." 


i2o   New  Foreshadowings  from  Old  Questions. 

"  Well,  that's  more  than  I've  done  with  even 
Buddhism  or  Mohammedanism,"  answered  Cal- 
mire.  "It's  one  thing  to  reason  away  a  faith, 
and  another  thing  to  do  without  it  when  you 
need  it.  It's  all  very  well,  when  things  are  going 
so  smoothly  with  you  that  the  question  of  some- 
thing to  fall  back  upon,  beyond  yourself  and  your 
friends,  is  merely  an  abstract  proposition.  But  a 
time  comes  to  every  young  fellow  of  your  com- 
plexity, especially  if  he  happens  to  have  a  con- 
science, when  some  spark  of  circumstance  blows 
his  character  from  unstable  equilibrium  into  chaos. 
He  suffers  the  agonies  of  annihilation,  and  must 
perform  the  labors  of  creation  to  make  himself 
anew.  He  generally  ends  in  constructing  creeds 
in  some  fashion,  but  he  has  to  do  it  in  the  sweat  of 
blood." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that,"  exclaimed  Muriel. 
"  Do  you  think  it  has  cost  me  nothing  to  give  up 
the  faiths  of  my  childhood  ?" 

"  Has  anything  gone  wrong  with  you  while  I 
have  been  away  ?" 

"No." 

"Then,  you've  not  yet  experienced  what  I  speak 
of.  You'll  know  it  when  it  comes." 

"  But  tell  me  more  about  it,  to  help  me  prepare 
for  it." 

"  It  would  be  useless  :  some  diseases  must  be 
gone  through  with." 

"But  you  don't  want  me  to  believe  nonsense?" 

"No;  nor  to  be  too  eager  to  believe  that  any- 
thing is  nonsense.  The  trouble  nowadays  is,  that 
so  much  which  the  world  has  clung  to  has  been 


New  Foreshadowing*  from  Old  Questions.    1 2 1 

proved  nonsense,  that  people  incline  to  think  that 
all  that  it  has  clung  to,  is.  Yet  there's  nothing 
more  thoroughly  ingrained  in  the  system  of  things 
than  these  religions:  you  can't  imagine  the  race 
being  evolved  to  the  present  point  without  them, 
and  no  community  has  ever  got  very  far  without 
one." 

"Yes,"  assented  Muriel,  "and  there's  nothing 
more  thoroughly  ingrained  in  the  religions  than 
their  absurdities." 

"  Now  Muriel,  that  isn't  so!  It's  very  superficial. 
You  know  perfectly  well  that  the  absurdities  have 
been  wearing  off  from  Christianity  for  hundreds  of 
years.  Evolution  gets  rid  of  them,  as  it  does  of 
other  primitive  noxious  things." 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel,  "and  it  gets  rid  of  the  re- 
ligion at  the  same  time  !  Haven't  they  all  got  to 
go?" 

"  The  underlying  principles  never  go,  but  all  forms 
change,  and  for  the  better.  Already  has  come  the 
difference  between  temples  for  human  sacrifice  and 
religious  organizations  for  saving  human  life;  be- 
tween the  barbaric  relic-worship  and  idolatries  of 
Rome  and  the  comparatively  rational  observances 
of  Protestantism:  and  the  observances  are  certainly 
more  religious  than  they  have  ever  been.  But  of 
course  all  human  things  have  their  imperfections, 
religion  with  the  rest:  yet  it  has  been  just  as  much 
an  agent  in  the  world's  progress  as  anything  else  in 
Nature,  and  it  is  as  much  of  Nature  as  anything  is." 

"  So  are  the  snakes  as  much  as  the  stars  !"  ex- 
claimed the  incorrigible  youth. 

"  Another  of  your  impetuous  fallacies!"  quietly 


122   New  Foreshadowings  fro m  Old  Questions, 

rejoined  the  elder  man.  "  One  could  almost  infer 
from  it  that  lately  you  have  seen  more  of  snakes 
than  of  stars.  Have  you  ?" 

"  Not  by  any  manner  of  means!"  exclaimed  the 
boy  with  a  candid  smile.  "  Not  by  any  manner  of 
means!  No!  the  good  things  predominate — even  in 
the  religions,  I  suppose.  No!  I  cave!" 

"Well,"  said  Calmire,  "I  don't  hold  to  any  an- 
thropomorphic religion,  as  you  know,  but  it  has  its 
uses.  You'll  find  soon  or  later  that  every  man  who 
is  a  man,  must  have  that  or  something  to  take  its 
place." 

"Yes,  but  he  needn't  have  rot,"  said  Muriel. 

"If  he  has  an  inferior  mind,"  answered  Calmire, 
"it  can  hold  only  inferior  ideas.  Unless  he  has  a 
soul  capable  of  saturating  itself  with  the  conception 
of  Law  (and  very  few  men  have  that  yet,  though 
many  would  claim  to  have),  he'll  have  to  land  in 
some  sort  of  anthropomorphism.  But  the  religions 
hold  all  the  best  conceptions  not  only  of  Law  but 
of  morality  that  their  adherents  have  been  able  to 
grasp;  and  to  call  them  'rot'  because  they  don't 
hold  better  ones,  is  to  despise  the  moon  because  it's 
not  the  sun.  The  religions  shine  with  reflected  light, 
it's  true;  but  it's  light  all  the  same, — reflected  from 
Nature  Herself,  and  though  there  are  many  aber- 
rations in  it,  it's  the  best  that  most  people  can  get." 

"Well,"  asked  Muriel,  "you  don't  expect  to  get 
all  that  into  this  girl's  head,  do  you  ?" 

"You  act  as  if  you  did,"  said  Calmire,  "and  a 
great  deal  that's  much  harder,  for  you're  always 
attacking  what's  there  already,  and  there's  no 
knowing  what  she  can  take  in  place  of  itf  You 


New  Fores hadowings  from  Old  Questions.   123 

keep  me  busy  soothing  what  you  ruffle  up,  and 
trying  to  show  her  how  the  essentials  of  her  old 
faiths  can  be  looked  at  in  the  new  way.  I  think 
it's  the  greatest  mistake  to  disturb  such  people  as 
you  do." 

"  Well,  what  in  thunder  can  be  done  about  it  ?" 
asked  Muriel.  "  Are  people  to  be  left  to  grovel  in 
their  blindness  forever?" 

"You're  a  pretty  impatient  soul,"  said  Calmire, 
quietly,  "  for  one  who  professes  to  believe  in  the 
slow  processes  of  evolution.  This  world  has  got 
along  a  good  while  without  your  help,  although 
that's  the  sort  of  fact  which  it's  very  difficult  for 
youngsters  of  your  make-up  to  realize.  You're 
actually  more  of  a  revolutionist  than  an  evolu- 
tionist. Have  some  of  the  patience  of  the  faith 
you  profess.  Leave  people's  needs  to  develop  as 
the  people  themselves  develop,  then  do  what  you 
can  to  satisfy  their  needs.  But  don't  try  to  stuff 
all  the  babies  in  the  land  with  beef  and  burgundy. 
This  is  a  serious  matter,  Muriel :  how  serious, 
you'll  find  out  some  day.  Now  take  my  advice 
and  leave  that  girl  in  peace,  if  there's  any  peace 
left  for  her  without  a  complete  change,  which  I 
doubt.  But  on  the  chances,  leave  her  all  the  peace 
you  can,  rather  than  give  her  more  of  this  stimula- 
tion of  unrest.  Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Uncle  Grand;  I'd  really  prefer  to 
be  decent,  if  I  could  conveniently," 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE    GRANZINES. 

WHEN  Calmire  talked  with  the  band-master 
about  Johnny  Granzine  going  to  college,  he  did 
not  mention  that  he  had  told  Mr.  Granzine  that 
Johnny  was  to  be  educated,  if  Calmire  had  to  bear 
the  expenses  himself,  which  he  was  perfectly 
ready  to  do,  but  which  Mr.  Granzine  had  said  he 
thought  he  could  manage  himself,  if  he  was  sure 
that  "a  hankering  after  books  would  do  anything 
more  than  spoil  the  boy  for  anything  good  he  may 
be  fit  for."  Mr.  Granzine's  experience  of  profound 
culture,  or  what  he  considered  such,  in  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Granzine,  did  not  appear  to  have  prejudiced 
him  greatly  in  its  favor. 

That  Granzine  family  had  always  had  a  sort 
of  mysterious  interest  for  Calmire.  The  name, 
though  apparently  corrupted,  pointed  to  French 
Canadian  extraction,  yet  the  father  was  as  blue- 
eyed  and  hay-haired  and  nasal-voiced  a  Saxon  as 
ever  drove  a  plow  between  New  England  stones. 
His  wife,  who  had  been  a  school-teacher  of  the 
name  of  Doolittle,  was  herself  as  unlike  her  name 
as  her  husband  was  unlike  his — a  slight  poetic 
creature  without  any  hips,  with  cold  gray  eyes,  and 
unmanageable  dark  hair,  ambitious,  refined  above 
her  station,  and  intensely  vulgar  in  her  all-absorb- 
ing consciousness  of  that  fact.  Johnny  got  his 

1124 


The  Granzines.  125 

genius  from  her,  and  Calmire,  who  loved  the  boy, 
forgave  her  a  great  deal  because  of  that;  but  he 
hated  her  nevertheless,  among  other  reasons  be- 
cause he  was  sorry  for  poor  old  Granzine,  for  whom 
the  woman  evidently  cared  nothing;  and  because, 
like  the  lower  creatures,  she  cared  less  for  her 
mate  than  for  her  offspring. 

Calmire  might  well  love  Johnny,  who  was  one 
of  those  rare  instances  where  sometimes  Nature 
selects  only  virtues  from  either  parent  and  inten- 
sifies them  in  the  offspring.  Whatever  worthy  as- 
pirations made  his  mother  restless,  were  in  this  boy 
easy  powers,  and  from  his  father  he  had  inherited 
gentleness,  truthfulness,  and  industry. 

Minerva,  who  was  really  Granzine's  step-daugh- 
ter, though  she  bore  his  name,  Calmire  half  ad- 
mired, but  did  not  trust.  Her  impulses  he  felt 
to  be  kindly,  and  he  thought  her,  as  far  as  he 
thought  about  it,  possessed  of  some  sort  of  a  con- 
science. But  he  had  once  said  to  himself:  "She's 
a  dangerously  rich  creature."  Yet  her  faults  were 
those  of  a  careless  and  luxurious  temperament:  not, 
like  her  mother's,  of  a  scheming  and  envious  one. 
Calmire  saw  a  good  deal  of  her  because  she  was  the 
leading  soprano  in  the  choir,  for  which  organization 
he  had  performed  substantially  the  same  services 
that  he  had  for  the  band.  His  brother  John  had 
said  to  him  once:  "  Oh,  if  the  girl  hadn't  such  a  fool 
for  a  mother!  Or  if  her  mother  would  only  rest 
satisfied  with  being  a  fool,  and  stop  there!" 

But  John  Calmire,  at  bottom  as  gentle  a  soul  as 
lived,  did  pass  a  good  many  hard  judgments.  Most 


126  The  Granzines. 

people,  including  herself,  regarded  Mrs.  Granzine 
as  very  far  from  a  fool. 

The  lady  in  question  had  greeted  her  daughter 
when  she  got  home  after  listening  to  the  band, 
with:"  Well,  my  darling,  did  you  derive  pleasure 
from  the  performance  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother  dear." 

"  I  hear  Mr.  Calmire  has  arrived.  Did  Mr.  Mu- 
riel come  over  with  him  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course  you  derived  great  pleasure  from  each 
other's  society  ?" 

Then  Minerva  told  another  little  fib  like  the  one 
she  told  when  we  had  the  honor  of  introducing  her: 

"  Certainly." 

She  and  Muriel  had  not  seen  each  other  at  all, 
except  to  exchange  salutations.  She  wondered 
why,  and  Muriel,  despite  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  busy  with  his  friends  and  his  music,  rather 
wondered  why,  too. 

Yet  it  should  be  understood  that  Minerva  some- 
times had  serious  difficulty  in  lying.  She  had 
"derived  great  pleasure"  from  Muriel's  playing, 
at  least,  and  the  fib  slipped  out.  It  was  flatter- 
ing to  her  own  vanity,  and  was  apt  to  keep 
alive  the  appreciative  tenderness  of  the  maternal 
heart.  This  was  a  desideratum  to  a  young  woman 
who,  after  an  evening  spent,  since  an  early  tea,  in 
walking  around  the  green,  desired  perfect  liberty 
among  the  pies,  cakes,  and  other  sources  of  gusta- 
tory satisfaction  with  which  the  pantries  of  that 
latitude  abound.  Minerva's  roundness — a  great 
contrast  to  her  '  mother's  proportions — was  not 


The  Granzines.  127 

sustained  on  thin  air,  and  her  "  unlady-like  ap- 
petite," as  her  mother  called  it,  was  one  of  the 
minor  burdens  of  the  elder  woman's  unsatisfied 
life.  Sadly  enough,  the  appetite  had  never  seemed 
less  affected  than  at  present  by  the  maternal 
aspersions.  It  was  not  'even  affected  by  any  dis- 
appointment the  young  lady  herself  may  have  felt 
at  not  having  been  more  fully  honored  during  the 
evening  by  the  attention  of  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire. 
In  due  time,  it  was  satisfied,  however,  and,  after 
the  good-night  kiss  dutifully  exchanged,  mother 
and  daughter  sought  their  respective  rooms.  The 
father  was  always  away  at  the  factory  until  one 
o'clock,  and  Johnny  had  remained  out  on  some 
devices  of  his  own. 

Free  as  Mrs.  Granzine  was  to  seek  sleep,  it  did 
not  readily  come  to  her,  and  not  before  her  hus- 
band's return,  had  she  so  withdrawn  her  mind  from 
certain  speculations  to  which  it  had  lately  become 
addicted,  that  she  was  able  to  calm  it  to  rest. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  state  of  that  lady's 
account  on  the  recording  angel's  ledger  in  heaven, 
nobody  on  earth  (with  the  exception  of  Mr.  John 
Calmire),  had  ever  expressed  a  doubt  that  she  was 
a  superior  woman.  Taking  that  term  in  its  vague, 
general  sense,  even  he  had  been  known  to  concede 
it  to  her,  but  he  hated  her  nevertheless.  The  one 
thing  most  likely  to  lead  to  qualifications  in  such 
exalted  praise,  was  the  amount  of  time  which,  in- 
stead of  devoting  to  pursuits  more  natural  to  such 
a  superior  person,  she  spent  in  obtaining  data  for 
her  philosophy  of  Man  and  Nature,  from  her  little 


128  The  Granzines. 

parlor  window.  Each  morning,  except  Sunday, 
since  the  events  just  recorded,  after  she  had,  with 
Minerva's  rather  languid  assistance,  most  energeti- 
cally and  systematically  discharged  her  domestic 
duties,  she  was  more  prompt  than  usual  in  seating 
herself  about  eleven  o'clock,  with  a  book,  in  her 
accustomed  perch. 

The  book  did  not  seem  to  engross  her  during 
these  three  days  even  as  much  as  usual.  On  the 
last  of  them  she  had,  as  usual,  exchanged  saluta- 
tions with  several  passers-by,  and  had  given  more 
than  one  the  benefit  of  a  few  courteous,  not  to  say 
stilted,  phrases,  when  who  should  come  riding  by 
on  a  light  sorrel  thoroughbred,  but  Mr.  Muriel 
Calmire!  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  did  not  sit 
a  horse  as  well  as  he  did  some  other  things,  but  he 
did  it  well  enough  to  make  what  appeared  to  Mi- 
nerva, gazing  through  her  chamber  blinds,  far 
from  an  Unpleasing  picture. 

He  was  lost  in  meditation,  and  might  have 
passed  the  house  without  knowing  it  (although 
his  intention  had  been  distinctly  otherwise),  had 
not  Mrs.  Granzine,  whose  expression  on  seeing 
him  was  wonderfully  as  if  she  had  been  waiting 
for  him,  called  out  :  "  Good  morning,  Mr.  Muriel ! 
Glad  to  see  you  back  !"  Apparently  the  woman 
could  avoid  polysyllables  when  there  was  not  time 
for  them. 

The  abstraction  passed  from  his  face  like  the 
shadow  of  a  swift  cloud  from  a  lake,  and  he  was 
all  smiles  when  he  stopped  his  horse  before  the 
window,  saying,  "  I'm  always  glad  to  get  back,  too. 
How  are  you  all  ?" 


The  Granzines.  129 

"Very  well,  I  thank  you.  Minerva  will  be  down 
in  a  minute." 

Was  this  superior  woman,  in  her  prompt  and  in- 
consequent allusion  to  Minerva,  just  a  Jttle  off  her 
balance,  with  trepidation  or  anxiety  or  something 
of  that  sort  ?  If  she  was,  Muriel,  though  he  might 
have  felt  it,  was  hardly  worldly-wise  enough  to 
recognize  it. 

"  Yes  ?  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  her,  but  I  can't 
stop  now,  I  have  a  message  to  Mr.  John  Calmire." 

"  Well,  you  must  stop  to  luncheon  going  back." 

Muriel  hesitated.  He  did  not  exactly  want  to, 
and  consciousness  of  that  fact,  coupled  with  the 
necessity  of  concealing  it,  so  upset  his  ingenuous 
nature  as  to  incapacitate  him  from  saying  anything 
more  than:  "Thank  you!" 

"  At  what  hour  shall  you  return  ?"  inquired  the 
lady,  not  unconsciously  naming  an  hour,  as  some 
different  ladies  would  have  done. 

"  Oh  well,  don't  you  dine  at  twelve  ?"  inquired 
the  gentleman,  not  ignoring  that  plebeian  fact  as 
some  different  gentlemen  would  have  done. 

"  Oh  no,  we  often  lunch  at  one,"  lied  the  supe- 
rior woman,  intensely  convinced  that  that  was  the 
proper  thing  to  do. 

"  At  one  then,  thanks,"  said  Muriel,  and  the 
thoroughbred,  feeling  a  slight  pressure  from  the 
gorgeous  boots,  started  briskly  off. 

The  meditations  in  the  rider's  mind,  if  the  privi- 
lege of  quoting  them  exactly  may  be  again  ac- 
corded, were  substantially:  "Why  the  devil  must 
that  woman  always  be  putting  on  airs?  Often 
lunch  at  one,  indeed!  As  if  I  didn't  know,  and  as 


13°  The  Granzines. 

if  she  didn't  know  I  know,  that  the  maison  Gran- 
zine  wrestles  its  hash  at  twelve  sharp."  Then, 
after  a  brief  interval:  "  Poor  Minerva!" 

And  soon  his  thoughts  wandered  far  from  Mi- 
nerva, his  face  fell  into  the  same  lines  that  Mrs. 
Granzine  had  pulled  it  out  of,  and  his  thoughts 
ran  on  Nina  in  strains  something,  like:  "Yes,  she 
is  an  unusual  girl.  I  certainly  never  did  meet  one 
like  her.  But  why  the  devil  must  she  be  making 
herself  disagreeable  all  the  while  ?  Ain't  I  as  bright 
as  she  is?  Don't  I  know  more  than  she  does?  She 
hasn't  a  bad  heart,  though.  And  she's  certainly 
nobody's  fool.  What?  Why,  of  course  she's  a 
fool!  If  she  isn't,  it  may  cross  my  mind  some  of 
these  days,  to  imagine  that  I  may  be  one  myself." 

Such  very  inconsequent  cogitations  occupied 
him  for  the  few  minutes  it  took  to  trot  to  his  uncle's 
office.  The  business  there  was  soon  dispatched, 
and  he  had  time  to  run  over  to  the  house  and  get 
a  little  petting  from  his  aunt,  and  caress  and  tease 
the  children  a  little,  before  starting  back  to  keep 
his  appointment  (which  he  took  precious  good 
care  not  to  mention)  at  the  Granzines'. 

He  met  Mr.  Granzine  on  the  way  to  the  mill, 
after  the  meal  (he  divined)  which  served  that  late 
worker  as  breakfast.  But  on  nearing  the  house, 
he  saw  through  the  side  window  of  the  little  din- 
ing-room, no  indication  of  symposia  past  or  to  come. 

At  the  gate  (this  was  before  the  blessed  destruc- 
tion of  so  many  fences  in  front  of  houses  in  small 
towns)  he  met  Johnny  coming  out.  The  boy  bowed 
with  perfect  respectfulness  and  yet  with  the  ease 
of  a  prince.  But  in  place  of  the  usual  calm  of  his 


The  Granzines.  13 [ 

great  gray  eyes,  as  they  looked  into  Muriel's,  there 
was  something  not  quite  easy. 

After  bowing  Muriel  into  the  parlor,  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine  excused  herself  for  a  few  minutes,  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  alone  in  the  room. 

On  glancing  around,  he  remarked  to  himself: 
"  So  they've  got  it  here  too,  have  they  ?"  and 
picked  up  the  illustration  of  the  keramical  craze 
then  rampant,  which  stood  nearest  to  him.  He 
had  been  struck  by  the  unexpected  number  and 
magnificence  of  similar  objects  displayed  around 
the  modest  apartment.  On  examining  the  one  in 
his  hand,  he  found  it  cracked.  Proceeding  leis- 
urely and  unsuspiciously  to  the  survey  of  another, 
his  curiosity  at  finding  it  also  cracked,  drove  him 
to  a  third.  It,  too,  was  cracked,  and  so  was  a 
fourth.  He  had  barely  ascertained  this  fact  when 
he  was  struck  by  a  consciousness  of  what  he  was 
doing,  and  with  his  usual  intensity,  elegance,  and 
candor  addressed  himself:  "Don't  be  a  sneak! 
What  business  have  you  prying  into  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine's  splendor  in  this  way  ?" 

Close  upon  his  remark,  entered  Minerva,  fol- 
lowed by  her  mother.  The  girl  looked  extremely 
pretty.  Her  round  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  were  lowered  as  she  advanced  toward  him 
with  her  hand  outstretched.  As  soon  as  he  took 
it,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  confident  smile, 
and  the  confusion  or  whatever  it  had  been,  left 
her  face  and  manner  altogether. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming!"  was  her 
coquettish  greeting. 

"A  queer  thing  for  you  to  think!"  said  the 
young  man,  with  less  than  half  of  his  usual  aplomb. 


132  The  Granzine $. 

Then  all  seated  themselves,  before  he,  with  his 
native  incapacity  to  endure  a  pause,  broke  it  with* 

"  I  hoped  to  see  you  the  other  night."  Perhaps  he 
did,  but  his  hope  had  not  inspired  him  with  much 
effort  to  realize  it:  in  recognition  of  which  fact, 
Miss  Minerva  responded: 

"  I  was  on  the  green.     I  heard  you  play." 

"  Yes  ?  There  were  so  many  people  to  shake 
hands  with,  and  my  uncle  had  some  company,  so  I 
was  pulled  here  and  there  without  being  able  to  do 
anything  merely  because  I  wanted  to." 

"  Is  the  beautiful  young  lady  visiting  at  your 
house  ?>;  inquired  Mrs.  Granzine,  who  had  noticed 
the  inconsistency  between  his  statements  and 
Minerva's  previous  one. 

"Miss  Wahringis  staying  with  us  if  you  mean  her." 

"  Why,  do  you  not  consider  her  beautiful  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Granzine. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  she  is.  People  generally  think 
girls  are." 

Mrs.  Granzine's  scrutinizing  glance  took  on  a 
shade  of  perplexity.  Was  Muriel  trying  to  make 
a  fool  of  her?  His  insensibility  to  Miss  Wahring's 
unquestionable  charms  was  beyond  her  compre- 
hension. Her  only  way  of  accounting  for  so 
strange  a  phenomenon  was  that  Muriel  was  more 
attracted  by  the  young  lady  than  he  cared  to  own. 
She  determined  to  investigate  this,  and  being  en- 
tirely unable  to  understand  his  character,  got  her- 
self, before  he  left,  into  a  very  pretty  fog  of  self- 
deception. 

Her  first  step,  however,  was  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, which  she  did  very  naturally  by  saying: 


The  Grammes.  133 

"  We  will  take  luncheon  in  the  garden,  Mr.  Muriel 
Shall  we  proceed  thither  now  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  much  pleasanter  than  here," 
said  the  candid  youth,  intending  to  compliment 
her  selection,  and  blissfully  unaware  of  any  im- 
plication but  a  pleasant  one.  Mrs.  Granzine's 
vanity  was  equal  to  the  occasion,  however,  and 
saying,  "  I  am  glad  you  acquiesce  in  my  prefer- 
ence," she  took  his  arm  and  led  him  off  as  she  had 
an  impression  that  a  hostess  in  a  higher  sphere 
would  always  lead  a  man  when  she  was  going  to 
give  him  something  to  eat. 

The  garden,  which  was  reached  by  a  flight  of 
a  dozen  steps  from  the  back  piazza,  sloped  to  the 
river  and  had  a  view  of  the  hills  beyond.  It  was  a 
pretty  place,  and,  its  owner's  means  not  admitting 
of  much  care  and  elaboration,  it  was  one  of  the 
most  natural  things  about  the  establishment.  Of 
course  a  path  ran  straight  from  the  foot  of  the 
piazza  steps  to  the  water,  and  of  course  a  white- 
washed grape-arbor  spread  over  this  path  half- 
way down,  and,  of  course  too,  the  path  was  liber- 
ally bordered  by  dahlias,  hollyhocks,  and  poppies. 
All  Mrs.  Granzine's  superiority  was  inadequate  to 
a  departure  from  the  type  of  the  region,  in  any  of 
these  fundamental  particulars.  It  had  been  ade- 
quate, however,  to  the  suppression  of  sunflowers 
around  the  veranda,  as  she  considered  them  a 
coarse  and  vulgar  plant,  and  had  not  yet  reached 
that  elevation  of  aestheticism  which  had  already 
(though  Mrs.  Granzine  did  not  know  it)  intro- 
duced a  superb  fringe  of  them  along  some  of  the 
walls  at  John  Calmire's. 


1 34  The  Granzines. 

On  the  right  of  the  straight  path,  was  a  fine  pear- 
tree,  and  under  this  stood  a  table  which  had  been 
taken  from  the  house.  Mrs.  Granzine's  researches 
into  some  of  the  lighter  forms  of  European  litera- 
ture had  convinced  her  that  an  informal  meal  al 
fresco  was  quite  an  elegant  thing.  She  dimly  con- 
fused the  term  with  some  horrible  paintings  on  the 
walls  of  the  edifice  where  she  worshipped,  which 
represented  pillars  and  arches  to  give  the  illusion 
of  porches,  and  open  sky  beyond.  But  even  such 
reading  had  not  so  far  corrupted  her  allegiance  to 
the  sad  customs  of  her  New  England  ancestry,  as 
to  lead  to  the  establishment  of  a  permanent  table 
for  occasional  meals  out  of  doors. 

To  her  dining-room  table,  so  wisely  misplaced, 
she  led  Muriel,  holding  his  arm  all  the  way  with 
heroic,  even  if  mistaken,  fidelity  to  high  ideals. 
Depositing  him  on  one  of  the  chairs,  she  observed: 

"  You  are  aware,  Mr.  Muriel,  of  the  distresses 
endured  by  American  housewives  with  their  do- 
mestic service.  Mine  have  all  left  me"  (only  one 
topic  did  Mrs.  Granzine  ever  permit  to  overcome 
her  grammar,  and  that  one  was  social  elegance), 
"  and  I  am  reduced  to  preparing  our  meal  myself.' 

Muriel  was  sometimes  a  cynical  dog  (if  the  reader 
will  pardon  the  tautology),  but,  having  been  so  little 
under  the  influence  of  his  family  and  so  much  under 
inferior  influences,  he  had  become  enough  of  a 
snob  himself  to  feel  some  sympathy  with  poor  Mrs. 
Granzine's  sufferings;  so,  while  through  his  mind 
flashed  the  sentence,  "  As  if  she  hadn't  cooked 
Granzine's  dinners  ever  since  she  was  married,  and 
cooked  them  well  too,  I'll  bet,"  his  tongue,  never- 


The  Granzines.  !^c 

theless,  uttered  the  more  courtly  phrase,  "  I  feel 
myself  doubly  honored,  dear  madam."  For  at  least 
once  that  day,  it  was  his  high  privilege  to  make  a 
fellow-creature  happy.  It  may  or  may  not  have 
been  gratitude  that  led  her  to  say: 

"  While  I  am  making  my  arrangements,  I  will 
leave  my  daughter  to  entertain  you." 

Minerva  certainly  was  lazy,  but  somehow,  to-day, 
she  was  not  herself,  even  in  laziness,  and  Muriel 
actually  did  not  know  whether  he  was  glad  or 
sorry  when  she  bounced  from  the  chair  she  had 
naturally  dropped  into,  and  said: 

"  No,  Mother,  I'm  going  to  help  you!" 

"  No;  you  remain  here,  my  child.  I  am  cer- 
tainly adequate  to  the  exertion  myself." 

But  Minerva  had  already  started. 

"  Mr.  Muriel  is  never  tired  of  looking  at  the 
river  and  the  mountains,"  she  called  back.  "  He 
won't  miss  us." 

She  was  generally  ready  to  stay,  and  full  of  talk, 
spiced  with  a  little  good-natured  chaff;  but  to-day, 
off  she  went  and  help  she  did,  with  a  will — with 
such  energy  and  recklessness,  indeed,  that  Mr. 
Muriel  was  more  than  once  impressed  by  the  fact 
that  travelling  up  and  down  those  piazza  stairs, 
was  a  pair  of  little  slippers  surmounted  by  a  pair  of 
blue  stockings  with  some  little  white  figures  worked 
on  them,  that  were  filled  out  with  a  degree  of  luxuri- 
ance which,  to  his  young  and  omnivorous  taste,  was 
probably  more  impressive  than  would  have  been 
any  symmetry  that  Pygmalion  ever  chiseled. 

But  something  was  out  of  gear  in  the  boy.  The 
<juick  coursing  of  the  young  blood  was  there,  but, 


136  The  Gr amines. 

somehow,  over  it  dominated  a  sense  which  had  be- 
fore been  a  stranger  to  him  when  such  objects  were 
visible.  Though  somewhat  given  to  analysis,  he 
was  not  at  all  given  to  self-analysis,  and  he  hardly 
realized  that  the  unaccustomed  qualification  to  his 
feelings  was  distaste.  Still  less  did  he  realize,  in 
his  mind  contemplating  the  blue  stockings,  the 
presence  of  a  suspicion  of  danger;  and  least  of  all 
did  he  realize  a  comparison  of  the  feeling  which 
the  blue  stockings  inspired,  with  other  emotions 
that  he  sometimes  imagined  and  longed  to  feel. 
Yet  back  in  his  nature  were  all  these  complex  ele- 
ments, but  the  nearest  approach  to  any  definite 
thought  that  came  into  his  mind,  was  a  query: 
"Am  I  going  to  rush  after  those  blue  stockings 
wherever  they  see  fit  to  run  ?" 

So  attractive,  however,  were  the  objects  of  his 
meditations,  that  he  did  not  inquire  very  deeply 
into  the  unaccustomed  turn  the  meditations  had 
taken.  The  idea  of  his  stopping  in  any  such 
pursuit  as  he  was  picturing  to  himself,  had  never 
occurred  to  him  before;  and  not  till  some  time 
afterward,  when  it  was  brought  up  by  even  more 
unaccustomed  thoughts,  did  he  stop  to  ponder  on 
the  strangeness  of  such  an  idea  occurring  now. 

The  lunch  was  served,  and  a  good  lunch  it  was, 
though  the  young  man  could  not  escape  his  faculty 
of  criticism  far  enough  to  enjoy  it  in  free  uncon- 
sciousness of  its  variations  from  certain  con- 
ventions with  which  he  was  familiar.  His  biog- 
rapher must  even  record,  in  faithfulness  though 
in  sorrow,  that  he  did  not  entirely  succeed  in  re- 
fraining from  incidental  allusions  to  fine  houses 
where  he  had  tasted  viands  inferior,  as  he  declared, 


The  Gran  sines.  J37 

to  certain  ones  set  before  him.  These  allusions, 
while  impressing  his  companions  with  his  social 
superiority,  made  them  conscious,  not  without 
some  twinges,  of  the  shortcomings  of  the  hospi- 
tality they  were  offering.  He  said  nothing,  how- 
ever, with  any  intention  of  giving  pain,  and  said  so 
many  things  with  the  distinct  intention  of  giving 
pleasure,  and  said  them  so  effectively,  that  his 
hostesses  were  on  the  whole  charmed  with  the  suc- 
cess of  theii.  little /^te,  and  he  was  quite  charmed, 
as  usual,  with  himself. 

The  mayonnaise,  it  must  be  admitted,  was  not  a 
mayonnaise  at  all,  but  the  lamb-chops  were  breaded 
to  perfection,  and  the  Spring-chicken  was  fried  and 
bathed  in  white  sauce  in  a  way  that  did  credit  to 
the  teaching  of  Mrs.  Granzine's  Virginia  cousin. 
In  the  rolls  which  Mrs.  Granzine  had  set  before 
she  took  her  station  at  the  window  that  morning, 
there  was  no  trace  of  the  saleratus  that  then  per- 
vaded the  cuisine  of  those  latitudes;  and  there  was 
a  bottle  of  thin  pinkish  wine  made  of  currants,  or 
elderberries,  or  God  knows  what, — possibly  grapes, 
but  so  well  made  and  so  well  kept,  and  even  so 
well  iced  (by  some  subtle  divination  of  that  su- 
perior woman;  for  if  she  had  followed  her  literary 
lights  or  those  of  her  experience,  she  might  have 
either  served  the  stuff  tepid  and  exhaling  all  its 
raw  bouquet,  or  have  iced  Burgundy  itself,  if  she 
had  had  it),  that  Muriel  drank  most  of  it  (as  per- 
haps he  would  have  done  if  it  had  not  been  so 
good),  with  an  effect  on  his  eloquence  and  geni- 
ality that  could  not  have  been  surpassed  by  his 
uncle's  Clos  de  Vougeot- 


138  The  Granzines. 

Yet,  under  it  all,  somehow  rumbled  a  negation, 
and  after  he  had  expressed  with  most  graceful 
volubility  his  appreciation  of  the  kindness  of  'his 
entertainers,  and  turned  his  horse's  head  home- 
ward, his  strong  face  gradually  fell  into  its  medi- 
tative lines,  and  there  floated  through  his  mind  in 
disjointed  and  inconsequent  ways  such  sentences 
as:  "So  Miss  Wahring  pities  me,  does  she?  I 
wonder  how  she'd  feel  if  she  could  see  me  wor- 
shipped and  see  what  sort  of  a  god  I  am!. ...Boun- 
teous Nature!  What  a  creature  that  Minerva  is! 
How  she  did  roll  her  gorgeousness  up  and  down 
those  steps!. ...Muriel,  what  ails  you?  Oh  well! 
there  must  be  an  end  to  tomfoolery  some  time,  and 
perhaps  the  sooner  the  better!  Oh,  if  I  could  get 
but  one  clear  and  strong  emotion  to  come  and 
burn  it  away  like  the  sun!  But  where?  Where? 
I  stretch  out  empty  arms  to  the  universe,  and  empty 
they  fall!. ...Is  my  strong  stomach  turning  against 
cakes  and  ale  ?  Perhaps  it  isn't  as  strong  a  stomach 
as  it  was  once.  It  certainly  has  had  a  good  deal  to 
do!. ..Well,  it  is  a  new  sensation.  I  certainly  never 
saw  a  woman  before  Miss  Wahring  whom  I  couldn't 
master.  But  then  I  don't  care  to  master  her.  I 
wonder  if  she's  been  glad  to  have  me  out  of  the 
way  to-day?  God  knows  I'm  glad  enough  to 
escape  her,  with  her  ignorance  and  impudence!.... 
Does  it  occur  to  you,  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire,  that 
ignorance  never  was  a  bar  to  your  seeking  the 
society  of  Miss  Minerva  Granzine  ?"  And  after  a 
little  more  meditation,  the  queer  boy  ejaculated 
aloud:  "  But  God  forgive  me  !"  and  actually  took 
off  his  hat. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ANOTHER      BOUT. 

PROBABLY  the  last  thing  to  be  expected  from-  a 
boy,  unless  he  is  a  stupid  boy,  is  consistency.  So 
perhaps  the  reason  Muriel  raised  his  hat,  was  be- 
cause he  had  uttered  the  name  of  God.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  when  he  found  Miss  Wahring  on  the 
pizza  at  Fleuvemont,  his  manner  could  not  have 
been  more  deferential  if  he  had  felt  impelled  to 
make  her  reparation  for  some  wrong.  Up  to  that 
time,  he  had  treated  her  with  the  offhand  ease  of  a 
young  sultan,  whose  handkerchief  had  always  been 
raised  wherever  it  had  happened  to  fall:  not  that  he 
had  consciously  felt  in  that  way  toward  her,  but 
the  boy  had  been  spoiled  :  though  he  had  sat  too 
often  at  Mrs.  John  Calmire's  feet,  and,  earlier,  at 
Mrs.  Legrand's,  not  to  know  what  a  true  woman 
is,  and,  despite  his  aberrations,  to  long  with  more 
fervor  than  he  bestowed  on  all  other  dreams,  for 
the  love  of  a  true  woman — that  is,  one  made  on  an 
entirely  new  pattern  which  it  would  have  been 
cruel  to  suddenly  call  upon  him  to  describe,  but 
with  a  good  deal  more  than  either  of  his  aunts 
had  of  rough  commonplace  intellect,  though  not 
with  more  of  their  transcendent  genius  of  sym- 
pathy which  he  failed  to  appreciate. 

His  shade  of  compunction,  or  whatever  it  was, 

139 


140  Another  Bout. 

toward  Miss  Nina  Wahring,  tempered  the  little 
conversation  which  they  had  in  a  stroll  on  the 
lawn  before  they  went  to  dress  for  dinner.  After 
they  had  chatted  on  indifferent  things  for  a  few 
minutes,  Muriel  said: 

"  See  my  uncle  over  by  the  grove.     Did  you  ever 
notice  his  walk  ?     He  moves  like  the  river." 
•   "Yes.     He  is  so  calm  and  strong.    He  rests  me." 
And    then  she  added  half  to  herself:  "But  it's  a 
new  thing  for  me  to  think  of  rest!" 

"  It's  a  very  old  thing  to  me." 

"  Yes,  you  are  lazy,"  said  the  lady. 

"  No,  I'm  not.  Give  me  any  work  I  care  for, 
and  I  work  like  a  horse." 

"  Yes,  you'll  work  at  enjoying  yourself." 

"  Well,  how  am  I  different  from  that  beast  whose 
cupola  you  see  over  the  hill  there  ?  He  works 
because  he  enjoys  it.  I  heard  him  tell  a  man  so, 
one  day  in  the  cars.  Now  what  does  his  work 
amount  to?  He's  a  bank-president  in  New  York. 
He  goes  down  every  morning  in  the  six-twenty- 
four  train,  busies  himself  over  purely  material 
interests,  and  gets  back  in  the  evening  about 
six.  Then  he  dines,  if  that's  what  you'd  call 
the  sort  of  performance  they  have  over  there, 
and  then  he  goes  to  sleep.  As  the  days  get  a 
little  shorter  he  comes  out  too  late  for  a  drive. 
Then,  after  he  swallows  his  dinner,  he  goes  to 
sleep  too  soon  to  open  a  book.  In  short,  he  leads 
the  life  of  the  beasts,  and  that's  why  I  called 
him  one.  Now  that  man  enjoys  his  laborious 
day  as  much  as  I  enjoyed  training  my  crew  at 
college,  and  he  lives  such  days  because  he  enjoys 


Another  Bout.  141 

them:  just  the  same  reason  that  I  trained  my  crew 
or  learned  the  cornet — two  things  that  he  couldn't 
do  to  save  his  life.  Yet  he's  admired  as  a  model 
of  energy,  while  I  am  twitted  for  laziness  by  peo- 
ple whom — whose  respect  I  believe,  upon  my  soul, 
I'm  really  beginning  to  care  for." 

Her  smile  answered  his,  and  her  eyes  met  his  as 
frankly  as  they  had  always  done,  but  for  the  first 
time  in  their  acquaintance,  she  lowered  them  be- 
fore she  began  her  reply. 

"  In  regard  to  many  people,  what  you  have  said, 
is  just.  In  fact,  our  country  is  full  of  such.  But 
do  you  know  Mr.  Plumfield  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  know  him,  and  I  don't  want  to. 
What  I've  heard  about  him  is  enough." 

"  Yet  I  must  beg  you  to  hear  some  more,  for  I 
do  know  him.  In  town,  they  live  next  door  to  us. 
Out  here,  he  leaves,  as  you  say,  on  the  six-twenty- 
four  train.  He  reaches  New  York  not  far  from 
nine.  He's  not  due  at  the  bank  until  ten.  How 
do  you  suppose  he  spends  the  interval?" 

"  Getting  shaved  and  eating  his  breakfast,  I  sup- 
pose. He  certainly  can't,  do  either  before  he  starts." 

"  He  does  do  both,  and  decently  and  in  order 
too.  No,  he  generally  spends  that  time  in  person- 
ally visiting  needy  people  who  are  recommended 
to  him  by  the  man  he  pays  to  investigate  them." 

"The  Devil  he  does!  Miss  Nina,  I  beg  your 
pardon!"  he  added  as  she  turned  her  clear  gaze 
upon  him  reprovingly. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  childish  to  be  making  such  a  slip 
to  beg  pardon  for?  Understand,  I'm  not  making 
the  same  sort  of  objection  to  the  profanity,  that  I 


H2  Another  Bout. 

might  have  done  even  a  week  ago.  It  is  more,  per- 
haps, to  what  your  uncle  would  call  the  disregard  of 
convention.  Though  if  you  put  your  knife  in  your 
mouth  before  me,  I  should  have  no  right  to  lecture 
you;  but  for  saying  such  things  before  me,  I  have 
a  right,  and  I  intend  to  use  it  again  if  you  do  so 
again." 

"Yes,  do!"  exclaimed  the  boy.  "Goon.  Make  me 
feel  like  a  baby  some  more.  I'm  getting  to  like  it." 

"Charmed  to  gratify  you!  Well,  do  you  know 
what  Mr.  Plumfield  does  with  his  two  hours  after 
the  bank  closes  in  the  afternoon  ?" 

"Visits  more  poor  folks,  I  suppose,  as  his  genius 
runs  in  that  line." 

"  No,  he  doesn't.  His  genius  is  capable  of  larger 
things.  He  goes  to  meetings  of  charitable  com- 
mittees. Yes,  come  to  think  of  it,  committees  of 
literary  and  artistic  things  too.  He's  the  prop 
and  mainstay  of  three  or  four  such  concerns." 

"I  didn't  suppose  he  could  care  for  them  at  all. 
Well,  I've  done  the  man  a  wrong,  and,"  as  they 
turned  and  faced  his  house  again,  "  I'd  like  to  go 
and  tell  him  so."  (But  he  would  not  have  gone.) 
"Yet  you  said  I  was  right  in  the  general  drift  of  what 
I  said — if  he'd  been  like  most  of  his  style  of  men.'' 

"  No,  I  didn't  say  exactly  that.  But  I  feel  as  if 
you  were  to  blame  somehow.  In  short,  I  wanted 
to  say  to  you  what  you  have  so  often  said  to  me: 
*  Try  to  be  more  catholic-minded.'  " 

"Me!  More  catholic-minded!  Why,  I'm  not  a 
narrow  sort  of  a  fellow.  I  haven't  any  of  the  stock 
prejudices." 

"  No,  you   have  your  own    original    prejudices. 


Another  Bout.  H3 

You  see  how  useful  Mr.  Plumfield  is;  but  you  still 
entertain  a  doubt  whether,  as  a  business  man,  he's 
of  as  much  use  in  the  world  as  an  average  fiddler." 

"  The  world  pays  the  fiddler  three  dollars  a 
night,"  said  Mr.  Calmire,  who  had  stopped  to 
speak  to  a  gardener,  and  was  just  passing  to  speak 
to  a  second,  "and  Mr.  Plumfield,  about  three  hun- 
dred dollars  a  day." 

"  The  world's  a  fool,  and  you  know  it,"  Muriel 
called  after  him.  "  How  much  did  it  pay  Archer, 
the  jockey  ?"  "  Got  the  last  word,  for  once,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Nina.  "  So  perhaps  I  can  own 
up  a  little  easier.  Do  you  know  I've  lately  had  a 
faint  suspicion  of  what  you've  just  intimated  to 
me.  I  will  try  to  be  more  catholic-minded." 

"  And  not  to  advise  others  to  be  so,  so  often  ?" 

"  Yes!     Here's  my  hand  on  it." 

She  did  not  give  him  the  opportunity  he  want- 
ed to  take  hers,  but,  moving  away,  said:  "  I  must 
get  ready  for  dinner.  You  seem  about  to  become 
quite  interesting." 

Her  tone  was  merely  playful,  not  sarcastic;  and 
as  they  separated  for  their  rooms,  he  went  off, 
very  conceited  over  his  new  virtue  of  humility. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    TOUGH    SUBJECT,    THOUGH    NOT    A    NEW    ONE. 

AFTER  dinner  the  ladies  started  for  their  rooms 
rather  early,  and  a  few  minutes  later,  Calmire  made 
as  if  he  were  going  too. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Muriel,  "  let's  have  another  cigar. 
Besides,  I'm  thirsty,"  and  he  rang  the  bell. 

"  Oh,  I'm  an  old  man,  Muriel,  I  mustn't  be  keep- 
ing such  hours.  Do  you  know  that  there's  a  par- 
ticular in  which  I'm  like  Sir  Isaac  Newton  ?  I'm 
good  for  nothing  without  eight  hours'  sleep." 

"  Take  it  in  the  morning,  sir.  You're  not  going 
to  the  mills  to-morrow,  and  there's  nothing  else  to 
do,  so  you  can  afford  to  be  good  for  nothing.  Why, 
Uncle  Grand,  do  you  know  I  haven't  had  a  square 
talk  with  you  for  over  two  years  ?  And  the  Lord 
only  knows  when  I'm  going  to  have,  with  all  these 
women  chattering  around  here.  Tell  Pierre  to 
give  us  something  in  the  dining-room,  and  come 
ahead." 

"  You'll  be  the  death  of  me  yet.  I  tell  you,  I'm 
getting  old." 

"  You're  always  charming  when  you  talk  non- 
sense, sir." 

And  they  went  off  arm  in  arm. 

Calmire  put  a  match  under  the  great  logs  in  the 

144 


A  Tough  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One.  145 

dining-room  fireplace,  for  the  night  had  grown 
cool,  and  they  drew  up  two  of  the  great  arm-chairs 
from  the  table.  Their  clay  was  duly  moistened, 
biscuits  nibbled  and  cigars  lit,  when  Calmire asked: 

"  Well!  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  your- 
self ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Of  course,  I  want  to  talk  about 
everything.  Seems  to  me  that  nearly  every  time 
I've  tried  to  get  my  mouth  open  lately,  that  girl 
has  shut  it.  But  somehow  I  can't  talk  common- 
places to  her." 

"  She's  rather  too  young  to  have  learned  or 
thought  much,"  said  Calmire.  "  But  I've  known 
you  to  talk  commonplaces  very  volubly  to  ladies 
who  knew  nothing  and  thought  nothing,  and  had 
not  her  sharpness  either." 

"  Yes,  that's  just  the  trouble.  One  is  not  content 
to  talk  only  nonsense  with  her,  and  yet  if  I  try  any- 
thing else,  it  only  leads  to  disagreement." 

"  Invariably  ?" 

"Well,  no,  not  invariably;  once  she  actually 
thanked  me  for  some  notions  I  gave  her,  but  I'd 
rather  she  hadn't." 

«  Why  ?" 

"  Well,  somehow,  she  made  me  feel  cheap." 

"Oh!  I  shouldn't  think  a  stupid  girl  could  do 
that.  Not  meaning  to  imply,  of  course,  that  you 
are  the  least  stupid  boy  I  ever  saw." 

"  Thank  you.  Yet  I  don't  more  than  half  like 
her.  Some  things  about  her  are  awfully  nice,  but 
I'll  bet  she's  stubborn  as  the  devil." 

"  All  of  which   sounds  to  me  as  if  she  had  sat 


146  A  Tough  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One. 

down  on  you  pretty  hard.  Has  she  been  savage 
all  the  time?" 

"  Not  exactly.  Once  she  even  was  amiable 
enough  to  pity  me." 

"What  for?" 

"  My  orphaned  state." 

"  I  always  gave  her  credit  for  a  deal  of  penetra- 
tion," said  Calmire,  "  but  that  sounds  as  if  she  had 
more  than  I  supposed." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Grand,  you've  never  let  me  fee! 
that  I  had  no  father." 

"Ah,  my  poor  boy,  I've  loved  you  and  scolded 
you  when  I  got  a  chance.  But  the  best  I've  done 
for  you  has  been  to  bring  you  up  at  boarding- 
school  and  college.  You've  never  had  a  home." 

"  What  do  you  call  this  ?" 

"  A  place  where  you've  been  welcome  to  an 
occasional  sojourn  when  I've  not  been  away,  but 
where  it  has  not  been  possible  for  me  to  keep  you 
so  steadily  that  your  character  would  grow  into 
any  shape  the  place  might  impose.  You've  grown 
up  wild.  You've  not  been  obliged  to  care  for 
women,  and  I  suspect  that  Miss  Wahring  realizes 
it." 

"  Why,  I  care  for  women  more  than  for  anytning 
else!" 

"As  an  amusement,"  responded  Calmire.  "I 
meant  that  you  had  neve-  been  obliged  to  take  care 
of  them,  to  think  of  them  before  thinking  of  your- 
self. But  as  you  care  so  much  for  the-n,  and  as 
you've  got  out  of  college  now,  I  suppose  you'll  be 
wanting  one  all  to  yourself  soon." 


A  Tough  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One.    147 

"  Yes,  if  it  were  but  possible  to  find  the  right 
one.  There's  nothing  I  so  yearn  for  as  a  good 
woman  whom  I  will  think  of  before  anything  else 
— whom  I  can  pour  out  my  whole  soul  upon." 

"You  can't  do  that,  my  poor  boy.  Your  habit 
is  to  think  of  yourself,  and  to  pour  out  most  of 
your  soul  upon  yourself,  and  nothing  but  suffering 
can  break  that  habit,  and  //  can't  break  it  in  a  day." 

"  Love  can  do  anything." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  love  ?  You  even 
make  it  a  sort  of  boast  that  you've  never  been  in 
love — an  evidence,  I  suppose  you  like  to  regard  it, 
of  your  superiority  to  every  woman  you  ever  met." 

"Well,"  answered  Muriel,  "  when  I  was  a  boy,  I 
fancied  myself  in  love  two  or  three  times,  but  I 
see  plainly  that  it  was  mere  fancy.  The  girls  were 
in  every  way  my  inferiors,  and  there's  no  conceit 
in  my  saying  it,  although  you  seem  to  think  I'm 
made  of  nothing  but  conceit." 

"  No,  there's  a  good  deal  else  in  you,  and  you'll 
have  the  conceit  ground  out  of  you  in  time.  But 
that  love  of  yours  was  the  kind  of  love  that  most  of 
the  poets  rave  about— the  love  that  throws  a  glory 
over  its  object,  as  a  sunset  does  over  the  most  com- 
monplace things — the  love  that  does  not  study  its 
object.  You  will  study  yours  now,  in  spite  of  your- 
self." 

"You  don't  mean  that  I  can't  love?" 

"  You  can  love  in  your  way,  but  it  won't  be  as 
the  poets  and  old-fashioned  novelists  depict  the 
passion.  That's  what  I  suppose  you  want  to  do  ?" 

"  Of  course,— to  have  every  faculty  of  my  being 
merged  in  it." 


148    A  Tough  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One. 

"  You  can't  do  it.  Your  being  is  grown  too  com- 
plex. And  you  need  hardly  regret  it,  for  that  kind 
of  love  is  based  on  illusions,  and  does  not  outlive 
them,  as  you  say  your  boyish  love  did  not." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Muriel.  "I  have  it  in  me  to 
love  unqualifiedly.  I  shall  yet  meet  some  woman 
before  whom  I  shall  lay  down  everything." 

"  That's  all  very  well,  my  boy,  but  there  are 
several  reasons  why  you  won't,  besides  those  I've 
already  given.  One  is  that  you're  not  in  the  habit 
of  'laying  down  everything'  or  much  of  any- 
thing: you  haven't  had  to  often  enough.  Another 
is  that  a  perfect  woman  doesn't  exist,  and  you'll 
detect  some  of  the  particulars  in  which  any  one 
woman  falls  short.  Another  is  that  you're  a  wor- 
shipper of  both  beauty  and  brains,  and  you'll  find 
it  hard  to  get  the  two  combined  :  the  beauties 
don't  generally  think  it  worthwhile  to  train  their 
minds:  you  may  possibly  grow  old  waiting  for  a 
delicate  woman  with  a  man's  tough  intellect." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  one  have  it?" 

"The  reasons  are  far  back  in  evolution.  The 
differences  in  general  structure  and  function  in- 
volve differences  in  brain.  Besides,  woman  hasn't 
yet  had  a  tair  chance:  the  world  has  been  too  much 
under  the  control  of  muscle;  and  her  disadvantages 
have  had  their  hereditary  influences,  along  with  the 
fact  of  sex.  So,  of  course  hardly  any  woman  ever 
did  any  of  the  big  things — at  least  the  recorded 
ones.  But  one  of  these  days  you're  going  to 
find  out  that  the  best  things  are  not  the  recorded 
ones.  Way  beyond  literature,  art,  philosophy, 
politics,  triumph  if  you  will,  the  deepest  and 


A  Tough  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One.    149 

sweetest  thing  I've  known  or  have  seen  any  reason 
for  supposing  man  can  know,  is  human  sympathy; 
and  at  that,  women  beat  us  all  hollow." 

"Maybe!"  said  Muriel  with  a  skeptical  drawl. 
"  But  I'm  not  such  a  worshipper  of  beauty  as  you 
suppose.  I've  fought  shy  of  more  than  one  pretty 
woman — in  our  own  sphere,  I  mean  ;  of  course  with 
other  women  I'm  no  puritan." 

"  But  at  bottom  you  are  a  puritan,  nevertheless," 
said  Calmire;  "and  if  your  little  strain  of  French 
blood  ever  gets  the  better  of  your  puritan  blood, 
there's  going  to  be  some  queer  trouble,  and  I  don't 
like  to  anticipate  trouble  for  you,  Muriel." 

"Why,  I  but  follow  Nature." 

"  So  do  you  if  you  take  what  you  like  wherever 
you  find  it.  Brute  nature  and  human  nature  are 
two  different  things,  though." 

"  The  cases  are  not  the  same,"  Muriel  objected. 
"I  know  that  stealing  is  not  right.  But  if  I  think 
anything  else  right,  it's  right  for  me." 

"  No!  Thatblunderis  frequent  among  the  young. 
Nooneman'sopinion  isatestof  right:  theaggregate 
opinion  is  the  only  one.  That's  not  always  right, 
but  it's  apt  to  be  right  when  it  contradicts  any  one 
man's.  But  utterly  independent  of  abstract  ethics, 
I  wish  you  could  realize  that  any  relation  you  may 
have  with  any  woman  but  your  wife,  which  the 
experience  of  mankind  says  should  be  reserved  for 
the  wife  alone,  you'll  be  sorry  for.  You  may  think 
that  you  can  incur  low  reminiscences  now,  and  still 
keep  your  soul's  holy-of-holies  uninvaded  by  them 
until  you  find  a  being  that  you  care  to  place  in  it. 
But  they  will  obtrude  themselves  at  the  loftiest 


1 50    A  Tougli  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One. 

moments,  and  you  would  have  to  lead  your  pure 
being  to  your  holy-of-holies  through  memories  of 
your  own  that  you  would  wince  to  see  her  garments 
touch — things  which,  if  you  lay  your  whole  nature 
open  to  her  (and  no  woman  is  worth  having  as  a 
wife  unless  she  will  welcome  your  laying  it  open), 
she  will  have  to  learn  of  with  bitter  pain." 

"Oh  well,  what  do  other  men  do?"  said  Muriel, 
carelessly. 

"  Are  you  '  other  men  '  ?  Would  you  be  content 
with  the  half-arm's-length  relation  with  your  wife 
that  satisfies  '  other  men  '  ?" 

"  No.  I'd  rather  have  her  know  me  and  love  me 
exactly  as  I  am.  I'd  want  her  big  enough  to.  But 
I'm  not  as  bad  as  some  fellows.  I  never  deliber- 
ately wronged  a  woman,  and  I  never  will  ;  and 
there  are  plenty  of  women  as  bad  as  I  am." 

"You've  no  right  to  help  any  of  them  continue 
bad,  and  you  can't  participate  in  the  badness  with- 
out harm  to  yourself;  and  I'm  impertinent  enough 
to  have  some  feeling  regarding  harm  to  you.  But 
I'm  afraid  preaching  won't  help  :  you'll  have  to 
undergo  experience.  Only  let  me  tell  you  that 
as  you're  not  apt  to  be  drawn  into  love  by  illusions, 
there's  double  danger  in  your  jading  your  suscepti- 
bility to  the  legitimate  charms  of  sex,  by  '  not  being 
a  puritan.'  " 

"  Oh  pshaw!  I  can  keep  my  soul  virgin,  no 
matter  what  my  body  does." 

Calmire  shook  his  head  but  did  not  speak. 

After  a  moment's  musing,  Muriel  asked:  "Doesn't 
the  man  without  illusions  love  more  deeply  and 
permanently  than  the  man  with  them  ?" 


A  TougJi  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One.    \  5  i 

"  Yes,  but  not  in  the  mad,  poetical  way.  But  he 
sticks  to  his  love  better  than  the  poetical  lovers  do. 
You  know  the  lovers  Byron  and  Poe  and  their  like 
depict.  They're  the  kind  all  boys  want  to  be.  You 
know  the  kind  of  lovers  such  poets  actually  were  : 
I  suppose  they  too  sometimes  fancied  that  they 
'  kept  their  souls  virgin.'  " 

"  But  I  want  to  do  the  loving  they  depict,  not 
that  which  they  did." 

"  You've  had  your  little  turns  at  it.  You're  too 
old  now.  It's  a  babyish  thing  at  best — as  evanes- 
cent as  all  the  emotions  of  childhood,  as  you  found 
it  yourself  several  times.  But  here  it  is  past  mid- 
night. I'm  going  to  bed.  We'll  have  enough 
chance  to  talk  during  the  Summer." 

"  Are  you  going  to  keep  these  women  here  ?" 

"  I  hope  they'll  stay.    Why  ?    Do  they  bore  you  ?" 

"  No.     Not  exactly." 

"  But  you  usually  like  ladies'  society.  I  can't  un- 
derstand your  apparent  indifference  to  these.  Cer- 
tainly they  are  as  charming  women  as  I  know,  and 
if  the  younger  one  ever  has  the  chance,  she's  ca- 
pable of  something  colossal." 

"  That's  a  big  word,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  "but  mind  just  that  word: 
you  may  see  it  justified."  After  a  moment's  pause, 
he  added  musingly:  "And  she  would  be  as  faith- 
ful as  Death!"  Then  he  slowly  shook  his  head,  look- 
ing at  Muriel,  and  added  :  "  But  you  don't  enjoy 
fighting  her !  Yet  I've  seen  you  enjoy  it  with 
other  girls.  Why  not  with  her  ?" 

"  Oh  well,  she's  not  like  any  other  girls." 

"  Well,  perhaps  a  little  of  her  castigation  may  do 
you  good.  Good-night,  my  boy.  Oh  !  Muriel,  by 


152    A  Tough  Subject,  though  not  a  New  One. 

the  way,  wouldn't  it  be  just  as  well  while  the  ladies 
are  here  to  hold  up  a  little  on  playing  the  cornet 
in  the  house  ?  Ladies,  and  perhaps  some  old 
men,  may  be  addicted  to  a  little  sleep  between 
lunch  and  dinner  !" 

"  Oh,  bother  sleep  !     Who  cares  for  sleep  ?" 

"Most  people  who  are  obliged  to  care  for  any- 
thing." 

"  Of  whom,  thank  God,  I'm  not  one,"  exclaimed 
Muriel.  "  Good-night." 

"  Yes,  you  are  one,"  said  Calmire,  "but  you  don't 
know  it  yet.  We  all  are." 

"  Oh  well,  Uncle  Grand,  I'm  getting  sick  of  this 
business — whatever  a  fellow  wants  to  do,  is  always 
bumping  up  against  some  confounded  Law  of 
Nature.  Nature  is  nothing  but  a  dumb  brute. 
I'm  a  man  and  I  have  a  will  of  my  own.  She  may 
blast  me  if  she  wants  to,  but  she  can't  frighten  me. 
Oh,  I  glory  in  old  Ajax  defying  the  lightning  !" 

"  Of  course  !  of  course!  Something  big  and  sen- 
sational !"  said  Calmire.  "Do  you  suppose  that 
if  you  see  fit  to  defy  Nature,  she's  going  to  bother 
over  you  with  her  lightnings  ?  She's  more  apt  to 
send  some  petty  filthy  messenger  so  contemptible 
that  even  a  microscope  can't  find  it,  and  quietly 
and  contemptuously  rot  you  down  as  she  does  the 
oak  :  she  does  not  often  grant  even  the  oak  the 
honor  of  a  lightning-stroke.  Muriel,  there  are 
some  things  before  which  it  does  a  man  good  to 
feel  small !" 

The  boy  first  looked  puzzled  and  then  ashamed. 
He  got  up,  held  out  his  hand  and  went  off  to  bed 
without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MR.  COURTENAY  EXPERIENCES   SOME   SENTIMENTS   AND 
A  VISIT. 

COURTENAY  had  been  put  ashore  at  the  scene  of 
the  accident,  by  the  mouth  of  the  tributary  stream 
which,  three  miles  up,  passed  the  town  of  Calmire. 
He  stood  the  drive  home  very  well,  but  he  was  not 
fairly  himself  for  more:  than  a  week. 

During  the  long  reflective  hours  of  that  week, 
even  his  impatient  dreams  over  his  beloved  and 
noble  work  could  not  generally  hold  their  place 
in  his  mind  against  a  widely  different  image, 
equally  noble  in  its  way  and — probable,  though 
strange — equally  beloved.  Amid  the  faces — weak, 
yearning,  cringing,  grateful — with  which  the 
reminiscences  of  his  ministry  were  crowded,  now 
always  obtruded  itself  that  strong  and  beauti- 
ful one,  his  recent  glimpse  of.  which  had  seemed 
heaven.  It  was  the  last  face  he  had  seen  on 
quitting  life,  the  first  on  returning  to  it.  She  had 
taken  his  life,  she  had  given  it  back.  She  con- 
trolled it.  It  was  hers.  That  sort  of  reasoning, 
under  any  inspiration  of  the  good  and  beautiful, 
was  easy  to  him.  His  whole  system  of  things  was 
made  up  of  it;  his  life  was  passed  in  preaching  it. 
On  grounds  about  equally  coherent,  but  with  the 
loftiest  motives,  he  had  from  the  beginning  given 


1 54    Mr.  Conrtenay  Experiences  some  Sentiments 

up  his  life  to  God;  and  now  the  second  great  inspira- 
tion, Love,  had  similarly  taken  possession  of  him. 
In  common-sense  matters,  he  was  by  no  means 
devoid  of  common  sense.  But  fond  as  he  was  of 
preaching  common-sense  sermons,  religion  was 
something  higher  than  common  sense,  and  so, 
he  now  felt,  as  he  had  often  dreamed,  was  love. 
Was  not  religion,  love;  and  love,  therefore,  religion  ? 
And  was  not  faith  in  love  therefore  faith  in  re- 
ligion ?  Any  less  view  was  a  low  view,  a  subjec- 
tion to  mere  reason,  of  his  highest  impulses  and 
his  highest  faiths.  Reason  he  admitted  to  be  a 
great  thing — in  law-courts,  in  laboratories,  and  on 
exchanges;  but  religion  and  love  must  be  guided 
by  something  higher  than  reason:  they  were  mat- 
ters of  inspiration — of  faith.  And  so,  as  he  was  in- 
spired by  the  faith  that  his  life  was  Nina's,  he  was, 
of  course,  inspired  with  the,  to  him,  logically  cor- 
relative conviction  that  her  life  was  his.  A  sense  of 
his  unworthiness  suggested  itself,  as  it  often  did: 
but  he  would  have  faith;  and  as  soon  as  he  should 
be  well  enough,  he  would  go  to  her  in  his  great 
faith,  and  it  should  be  justified. 

During  his  convalescence,  this  state  of  mind  ma- 
tured. It  had  been  stimulated  by  his  being  told 
of  Nina's  bitter  self-reproaches,  not  only  for  hav- 
ing so  imperiled  a  human  life,  but  a  life  so  val- 
uable as  she  knew  his  to  be.  All  this  had  been 
recounted  in  various  ways  by  the  Calmires,  who 
had  all  been  to  see  him — Calmire  himself  twice, 
John  on  alternate  days,  and  Mrs.  John  every  day, 
once  bringing  a  bunch  of  her  children. 

Even  Muriel,  after  leaving  his  card  the  day  he 


and  a  Visit.  i$5 

lunched  at  the  Granzines',  concluded  that  he 
could  manage  to  talk  with  the  parson  by  Wednes- 
day, and  on  that  day  presented  himself  in  person. 

As  Courtenay  walked  forward  to  greet  him, 
Muriel  grasped  his  hand  heartily.  Unless  he  dis- 
liked a  man,  he  could  not  take  his  hand  in  any 
other  way,  and  he  more  than  once  had  caught  him- 
self taking  in  that  way,  the  hand  of  some  one  he 
did  dislike. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Courtenay,"  he  said,  "  I'm  mighty 
glad  to  see  you  so  well  out  of  that  scrape." 

"  Yes,  it  has  indeed  been  a  merciful  deliverance," 
said  Courtenay,  "  and  I  thank  you  for  your  sym- 
pathy." 

Perfunctory  as  the  words  may  read,  there  was 
nothing  perfunctory  in  them.  They  came  out  in 
a  perfectly  hearty  and  manly  way.  So  did  Mu- 
riel's answer: 

"  Well,  as  regards  the  deliverance,  it  strikes  me 
that  a  better  time  for  that  would  have  been  before 
the  boats  struck." 

"  It's  not  for  us  to  criticise  the  ways  of  the  Lord, 
Mr.  Calmire,"  Courtenay  said,  though  not  austerely. 

"  Perhaps  not:  though  I  believe  in  the  liberty  of 
determining  which  are  the  Lord's  ways  and  which 
are  the  Devil's  ways." 

"  Then,"  said  Courtenay,  laughing,  "  I  suppose  I 
should  blame  the  Devil  for  getting  me  into  the 
trouble,  as  I  thank  the  Lord  for  getting  me  out." 

"  I  thought  Uncle  Legrand  got  you  out,"  said 
Muriel. 

"  He  certainly  was  the  Lord's  instrument,  and  a 
very  efficient  one." 


I  56  Mr.  Courtenay  Experiences  some  Sentiments 

"  Then  Miss  Wahring,  who  got  you  in,  was  the 
Devil's  instrument,  and  equally  efficient." 

"Ah!  I  cannot  be  guilty  of  such  double  blas- 
phemy as  that,"  said  Courtenay  fervently. 

Muriel  turned  his  eyes  from  the  flower-pots  on  the 
window-sill,  where  he  had  let  them  drift, and  cast  his 
strong  glance  full  upon  the  speaker:  though  it  was 
not  to  measure  him  for  battle,  but  merely  to  de- 
termine, though  not  premeditately,  whether  Cour- 
tenay's  fervor  were  gallantry  or  something  less 
mundane.  With  all  Muriel's  vaunted  slowness  to 
love,  he  was  entirely  capable  of  being  jealous  of 
any  man's  regard  for  almost  any  woman.  And 
as  that  universal  jealousy  existed  for  many  genera- 
tions in  the  remote  ancestry  of  every  man,  prob- 
ably the  strongest  traces  of  it  exist  still  in  the  men 
who  can  love  strongest.  Such  a  feeling  Muriel 
always  crushed,  or  thought  he  did:  but  it  came, 
and  needed  to  be  crushed.  Without  professing  to 
love  Nina  Wahring,  he  felt  that  innate  jealousy,  or 
some  other,  when  he  turned  toward  Courtenay; 
and  when  he  saw  Courtenay's  face,  he  realized  that 
he  felt  it. 

"What!  This  damned  parson!"  he  said  to  him- 
self. But  he  was  much  more  in  love  with  theo- 
logical argument  than  with  Nina  Wahring,  and  so 
he  returned  to  the  charge. 

"Where's  the  sense  in  thanking  God  forgetting 
you  out  of  a  scrape,  when  he  might  as  well  have 
kept  you  out  of  it  in  the  beginning  ?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Calmire,  our  moral  education  comes 
from  the  scrapes  we  get  into." 

"Well,  I  prefer  to  get  my  moral  education 
easier." 


and  a  Visit.  157 

"But,"  said  the  clergyman,  "we  can't  always 
have  what  we'd  prefer.  No  man  can  understand 
the  ways  of  God." 

"I've  found  mighty  few  men,"  responded  Mu- 
riel, "  who  are  strong  enough  to  profess  not  to, 
and  stick  to  their  profession  through  thick  and 
thin.  Men  profess  in  one  breath  not  to  under- 
stand him;  and  in  the  breath  before,  they  have 
thanked  him  in  some  fashion  implying  a  better 
understanding  than  I,  at  least,  can  see  my  way  to." 

The  rage  of  argument  was  upon  the  boy,  and  he 
would  have  gone  on  had  his  man  been  in  the  death- 
agony. 

Courtenay  changed  the  subject. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  up  to  argument  now,  and  I'm 
even  afraid  my  people  will  have  to  put  up  with  an 
old  sermon  Sunday." 

"  Fortunately,  they  can't  answer  back,"  said 
Muriel  with  good  humor,  but  not  realizing  the 
possible  double  meaning  of  his  "fortunately." 

Courtenay,  however,  took  the  remark  as  it  was 
meant  and  went  on: 

"  I've  been  able  to  read  a  little,  but  not  to  write." 

"  Why,  I  should  think  writing  a  sermon  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Not  easy  enough  for  me  now.  But  why  do 
you  think  it  easy  ?" 

"  Well,  as  I've  just  said,  the  congregation  gener- 
ally endows  sermons  with  a  sanctity  that  puts  them 
above  criticism." 

"That  conception  of  a  sermon  would  have  been 
correct  a  hundred  years  ago,"  said  Courtenay,  "and 
perhaps  later,  but  it  is  hardly  correct  now.  Now,  a 


158  Mr.  Court enay  Experiences  some  Sentiments 

minister  is  rather  expected  to  discuss  the  questions 
of  the  day,  and  some  have  had  to  give  up  congre- 
gations for  preaching  on  the  side  of  the  minority." 

"That's  true!"  exclaimed  Muriel.  "There  has 
been  some  pluck  there.  But  don't  you  think  any- 
thing but  religion  a  descent  from  religion  ?" 

"There's  theoretical  religion  and  there's  ap- 
plied religion.  I'm  a  practical  man,  Mr.  Calmire, 
and  I  try  to  preach  my  religion  applied." 

"  And  I  suspect  there  would  have  been  a  good 
deal  less  nonsense  in  this  world  if  more  people  had 
taken  your  course,"  said  Muriel,  rising  and  holding 
out  his  hand  to  take  leave. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  correct,"  said  Courtenay  with 
equal  cordiality.  And  as  they  grasped  hands  he 
added:  "I  wish  we  could  see  more  of  each  other, 
Mr.  Calmire!" 

From  babyhood  up,  Muriel  had  been  pestered 
by  so  many  advances  of  this  kind  from  people  of 
religious  professions  desirous  of  making  him  what 
they  saw  fit  to  call  "good,"  that  he  could  not 
dissociate  Courtenay's  advances  from  the  rest,  ana 
the  situation  embarrassed  him.  He  did  manage, 
however,  to  say,  "  We  get  along  better  than  most," 
meaning  most  people  who  disagree,  and  vanished. 

The  minister  had  received  Muriel  in  a  little 
study  upstairs  in  an  humble  boarding-house. 
More  luxurious  quarters  were  not  within  his 
means,  as  he  saw  fit  to  use  his  means.  Too  much 
of  his  salary,  respectable  as  it  was,  went  home  to 
the  large  family  of  which  he  was  the  eldest  son, 
and  to  poorer  people. 

After  Muriel  had  groped  his  way  down  the  dark 


and  a  Visit.  159 

and  narrow  stairway,  the  first  clear  thought  he  had 
was:  "  So  the  parson's  in  love  with  Nina  Wahring!" 
And  then,  but  with  no  realization  of  rivalry,  he 
fell  to  contrasting  the  parson  with  himself,  and  not 
altogether  to  the  parson's  advantage.  The  par- 

son was  a  good  fellow!  What  lots  of  good  he  did! 
But  all  sorts  of  namby-pamby  people  could  do 
that.  Muriel  could,  easily  enough,  if  he  cared  to 
try.  But,  after  all,  the  parson  was  not  so  namby- 
pamby:  he  could  even,  Muriel  suspected,  beat  Mu- 
riel at  tennis.  But  what  was  tennis?  A  mere  game! 
fit  for  girls  and  parsons.  Now  for  any  real  thing, 
say  a  pistol — Muriel  had  never  seen  a  man  vrho 
could  handle  one  as  well  as  he  could,  and  that 
was  a  man's  weapon.  And  as  to  pulling  an  oar  or 
sailing  a  boat!  Hadn't  Muriel  been  a  college  stroke, 
and  taken  boats  through  all  sorts  of  night  and  blow, 
while  that  near-sighted  parson  had  let  a  girl  run  him 
down  ?  And  then  his  idiocy  in  thinking  himself  in 
heaven!  "But,  confound  it!"  Muriel  thought,  "I 
wish  the  girl  hadn't  run  him  down."  The  wish  was 
not  born  of  any  tenderness  for  the  parson,  or  for 
the  girl  either.  And  no  one  could  have  convinced 
him  that  it  was  born  of  any  tenderness  for  himself. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

FAITH     AND     FACT. 

ON  Monday  evening,  Mrs.  John  had  Courtenay 
to  dinner.  The  good  fellow's  constitution,  strong 
from  temperate  living  and  abundant  exercise,  ap- 
peared to  have  entirely  recovered  from  its  fearful 
shock,  and  to  have,  if  anything,  taken  on  a  little  extra 
vigor  from  the  unusual  rest  of  the  past  ten  days. 

All  the  Fleuvemont  people  were  over,  though 
Nina  had  conquered  some  reluctance  before  con- 
senting to  go.  She  knew  that  they  would  meet 
Courtenay,  and  the  idea  of  encountering  her 
"  victim,"  as  Muriel  had  dubbed  him,  abashed  her. 
Yet  she  realized  that,  before  long,  they  must  meet 
somewhere,  and  she  preferred  to  have  it  over  with. 

On  the  afternoon  drive  over  to  the  dinner,  when 
they  passed  the  Granzines',  they  saw  Mrs.  Granzine 
and  Minerva  on  the  little  piazza— the  mother 
standing,  and  Minerva  seated,  with  a  mass  of  flowers 
in  her  lap.  Calmire  saluted  them  with  his  whip, 
and  Muriel  raised  his  hat.  These  proceedings  led 
Nina  to  remark  the  pair,  but  even  before  she 
recognized  them,  she  had  that  vague  feeling  of 
something  wrong  that  she  had  felt  when  they 
drove  over  before.  The  passing  glance  at  Mrs. 
Granzine  gave  her  a  sense  of  shrinking  that  she 
sometimes  had  experienced  regarding  people  whom 


Faith  and  Fact.  161 

she  had  afterward  found  dangerous,  and  when  she 
recognized  Minerva,  she  felt  a  certain  relief,  albeit 
confusion,  at  remembering  the  remarks  she  had 
overheard  when  Muriel  was  exhibiting  himself 
with  his  cornet.  Half  unconsciously,  she  ex- 
claimed: "  She  is  certainly  very  pretty!" 

Did  Muriel  blush  ?  And  what  was  it  that  made 
him  so  slow  in  saying:  "  You  mean  that  girl  that 
we  just  passed  ?" 

"  Whom  else  should  I  mean  ?"  said  Nina,  with 
some  odd  feeling  of  opposition. 

"  Oh  yes,  she'll  do  very  well.  See  that  hawk 
and  the  two  little  birds  over  there  !  Upon  my 
soul,  I  believe  he's  getting  the  worst  of  it!" 

They  watched  the  birds  manoeuvring  against 
the  blue  background  and  flying  along  in  front  of 
them.  In  a  few  minutes,  the  three  were  out  of 
sight,  after  what  seemed  a  drawn  battle. 

Muriel  then  turned  toward  Nina  and  said: 
"  How  do  you  reconcile  the  work  that  was  at- 
tempted then,  with  the  goodness  and  omnipotence 
of  your  God  ?  Either  the  poor  little  bird  had  to 
be  eaten,  or  the  poor  hawk  had  to  go  home  with- 
out any  supper." 

"  How  do  you  reconcile  it  ?"  answered  Nina. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to,"  Muriel  answered. 

After  they  were  all  in  the  drawing-room,  Mrs. 
John  said  to  Mrs.  Wahring  and  Nina:  "I'm  dis- 
appointed in  one  guest  whom  I  wanted  Nina  to 
meet.  I  think  you  know  her  already,  Hilda." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Mary.  She  had  to  go  to  New  York  on  some 
hospital  business  this  morning." 


1 62  Faith  and  Fact, 

"Oh,  I  want  to  see  her  so  much!"  cried  Nina. 
"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  when  we  first  came 
here.  She  was  so  lovely.  I'd  intended  to  ask 
about  her  before.  Who  is  she  ?" 

"  My  dearest  friend,"  said  Mrs.  John.    "  She  is — 

"  Mr.  Courtenay!"  cried  the  butler,  and  that  gen- 
tleman advanced  toward  hjs  hostess. 

The  name  gave  Nina  a  little  start,  and  she  in- 
voluntarily slipped  behind  her  mother,  which 
brought  her  near  Muriel. 

After  Courtenay  had  been  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Wahring  and  shaken  hands  with  the  older  men 
who  came  up,  Mrs.  John  led  him  up  to  Nina.  Be- 
fore Mrs.  John  spoke,  Muriel  said:  "I  think  you 
two  have  met  before." 

Nina  promptly  held  out  her  hand,  saying  : 
"And  oh!  Mr.  Courtenay,  can  you  ever  forgive  the 
manner  of  our  meeting?" 

"Don't  think  of  it  in  that  way,  Miss  Wahring." 

Men  have  their  own  ways  of  being  "ready." 
The  great  generals,  ready  beyond  other  men, 
have  not,  as  a  rule,  been  very  ready  in  mere  speech; 
and  men  who  have  been  very  ready  in  speech  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  very  ready  in  real  feeling.  Courte- 
nay was  prompt  in  feeling,  so  prompt  that  the 
very  directness  of  his  emotion  shoved  aside  that 
indirect  approach  to  things  which  contributes  to 
wit.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  he  sometimes  after  the 
event,  thought  of  the  better  things  he  might  have 
said;  but  not  often,  for  he  was  not  vain  enough 
to.  Regarding  this  occasion,  however,  he  did  af- 
terwards think  of  various  antithetical  observa- 
tions with  which  he  could  have  opened  his  ac- 


Faith  and  Fact.  163 

quaintance  with  Miss  Wahring.  He  wished  that 
he  had  said  in  answer  to  her  plea  for  forgiveness: 
"Forgive  it?  I  shall  always  bless  it!"  That  was 
what,  in  his  "Faith,"  he  felt;  and  something  like 
that,  was  what  he  thought  Muriel  Calmire  would 
have  said  under  the  circumstances.  The  good  man 
did  not  realize  that  that  was  just  the  sort  of  thing 
which,  in  its  slight  exaggeration  and  (as  he  would 
have  been  in  earnest)  its  unblushing  pouring  of 
emotion  into  the  ears  of  third  parties,  Miss  Wahr- 
ing would  not  have  liked  half  as  well  as  she  did 
like  the  bashful  parson's  straightforward  words. 
They  showed,  too,  that  he  did  not  think  of  himself 
but  only  of  her. 

Her  eyes  thanked  him,  and  her  answer  was: 
"  You  are  very  good.  And  you  have  been  doubly 
good  to  get  well  so  fast,  instead  of  giving  me  more 
of  your  illness  to  regret." 

Muriel  had  managed  to  muster  up  enough  un- 
selfishness to  move  away,  and  Mrs.  John  did  not 
find  her  presence  necessary.  Mr.  Courtenay  asked 
Nina  if  she  would  be  seated,  and  got  her  a  chair, 
instead  of  ordering  her  to  sit  on  one  before  asking 
if  she  wanted  to,  as  Muriel  would  have  done. 

When  he  was  seated  opposite  her,  the  ardently- 
awaited  situation  was  there,  but  it  seemed  strange. 
This  eminently  well-turned-out  young  lady  in  a 
very  pretty  dinner-dress,  seated  conventionally  in 
a  quite  correct  drawing-room,  was  certainly  a  most 
graceful  picture,  but  she  was  not  exactly  an  altar- 
piece;  yet  that  was  just  what  Courtenay's  devo- 
tional habit  had  made  of  that  glimpse  of  her  bright 
face  against  the  radiant  heavens;  and  he  had  been 


164  Faith  and  Fact. 

worshipping  before  it  in  a  very  devoted  but  yet 
very  professional  fashion.  He  still  felt  the  devo- 
tion, and  it  even  showed  itself  in  his  eyes,  but  he 
felt  a  little  as  if  he  had  gone  into  church  to  open 
service,  and  found  his  prayer-books  missing;  and 
so  it  came  about  that  his  first  remark  was: 

"  It  has  been  a  very  hot  day!" 

"Yes,  at  noon  it  was,"  said  Nina.  "But  we 
found  it  not  unpleasant  in  driving  over.  I  some- 
times feel  that  our  city  sea-breeze  must  reach  even 
up  to  here." 

How  easy  she  was!  How  she  had  given  the  little 
commonplace  subject  a  suggestive  turn,  and  how 
pitifully  commonplace  he  had  been!  Was  this  life 
of  his  a  very  full  life  after  all?  Although  he  some- 
times did  go  into  society,  he  was  at  the  opposite  ex- 
treme from  the  regular  society  parson,  and  did  not 
often  talk  with  any  strange  woman  except  the  wife 
of  some  new  laborer  who  needed  bringing  into  the 
fold  or  some  less  doctrinal  aid.  He  never  was 
stupid  in  talking  with  them.  And  before  he  settled 
down  to  his  work,  he  had  not  been  stupid  in  talking 
with  other  sorts  of  people.  All  this  went  through 
his  mind  in  a  flash,  but  not  to  the  relief  of  his  self- 
consciousness.  He  jumped  to  the  opposite  extreme. 

"  Yes,  it's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  us  no  good  from 
the  city." 

Nina's  balance  had  become  the  least  trifle  dis- 
turbed through  her  quick  sympathy  with  his  little 
perturbation,  and  she  said,  laughing,  but  a  trifle 
nervously: 

"  Like  that  wind  that  blew  my  boat  down  upon 
you!" 


Faith  and  Fact.  165 

This  braced  him.  He  was  on  the  water,  nothing 
before  his  eyes  but  her  face  with  its  loosened  hair 
and  the  blue  sky  behind  it.  He  exclaimed: 

"Ah,  I  shall  ever  bless  that  wind!" 

His  fervor  startled  her.  She  heard  the  rings  of 
the  portieres  behind  them  click  together,  and  Mrs. 
John  approached,  saying:  "  Mr.  Courtenay,  will 
you  take  Miss  Wahring  in  ?" 

But  after  they  got  in,  Mrs.  John  placed  "  her 
boy  "  Muriel  on  Nina's  other  side,  although  she 
had  got  Sallie  Stebbins  up  from  the  judge's  to 
make  the  company  even,  and  had  Muriel  take  her 
in. 

Calmire  was  on  Sallie's  other  side,  and  she  liked 
to  talk  to  him;  and  Mrs.  Wahring  was  on  the  cler- 
gyman's left,  and  she  preferred  to  have  him,  rather 
than  Muriel,  talk  to  Nina,  so  she  occupied  herself 
mainly  with  John  Calmire,  who  of  course  had  taken 
her  in.  This  arrangement  made  Nina  much  of  the 
time  an  object  of  competition  between  Courtenay 
and  Muriel.  To  Muriel's  ponderous  self-assertive 
nature,  this  would  have  been  an  annoyance  if  he 
had  not  been  in  high  feather  and  feeling  rather  a 
zest  for  the  rivalry.  Courtenay's  placid  and  un- 
selfish soul  was  not  at  first  Conscious  of  anything 
in  this  conjunction  unfavorable  to  his  eager  hopes. 
The  possibilities  of  boredom  and  the  possibilities 
of  delight  inherent  in  different  arrangements  of 
the  same  people  at  table,  had  not  been  realized 
among  his  limited  sorrows  and  limited  joys. 

They  were  hardly  seated  when  Muriel  began,  in 
his  amiable  way,  to  put  his  big  foot  right  into  the 
midst  of  things. 


1 66  Faith  and  Fact. 

"  Miss  Nina,  you  owe  it  to  Mr.  Courtenay  to 
make  this  dinner  compensate  him  for  a  good  many 
that  he's  lost." 

"  Oh  don't  let's  think  of  them,"  said  Courtenay. 
"  Fortunately  lost  dinners  are  not  like  some  other 
lost  opportunities.  I  have  had  an  extra  appetite 
for  a  few  days,  that  I  think  has  already  made  up 
for  mine." 

"  Your  amiability  seems  equal  to  anything,"  said 
Nina.  She  did  not  mean  to  intimate  that  Muriel 
had  imposed  upon  Courtenay's  amiability,  yet 
Muriel  felt  a  little  as  if  she  did.  Between  them 
both,  he  felt  a  sort  of  compunction,  and  so  set  to 
work  like  a  dancing  elephant  to  improve  matters. 

"  Well!  All's  well  that  ends  well.  We've  ended 
in  a  good  dinner.  And  if  your  running  a  man 
down,  Miss  Nina,  has  anything  to  do  with  the  in- 
troduction of  this  Sauterne  to  these  clams,  I  wish 
you'd  do  it  every  day." 

"  And  I  would  echo  the  wish  if  it  were  needed 
to  enable  me  to  discuss  these  good  things  in  your 
company,"  said  Courtenay,  looking  toward  her. 

"  Ah,  then  you  find  my  company  peculiarly  ap- 
propriate to  Sauterne  and  clams,"  said  Nina. 

"  To  anything  good,"  was  the  best  that  Courte- 
nay was  able  to  say. 

"  To  all  things  fragrant  and  inspiring — like  this," 
said  Muriel,  tasting  his  wine,  "and  to  all  things 
tender  and  sustaining — like  this,"  he  added,  drink- 
ing a  clam  from  its  shell,  regardless  of  his  fork. 
Then  he  looked  at  her,  laughing,  and  said  to  him- 
self, half  surprised,  "  Blest  if  it's  all  chaff!  She's 
lovely!"  He  had  already  attacked  his  second  glass 


Faith  and  Fact.  167 

of  Sauterne,  and  the  emulation  with  another  young 
man,  felt  now  for  the  first  time  in  her  presence, 
was  upon  him. 

"  Don't  you  think  there  are  flowers  enough 
about  the  table  alreacty,  Mr.  Muriel,  without  draw- 
ing on  your  rhetoric  for  more  ?"  asked  Nina. 

He  looked  at  her  significantly  a  moment,  and 
then  said:  "Yes;  emphatically  Yes!  Any  that  I 
or  mortal  man  can  make,  would  be  superfluous 
here." 

It  was  half  mischief  and  half  earnest.  He  would 
have  said  the  same  sort  of  cheap  stuff  to  any  at- 
tractive woman  under  the  circumstances,  and  had 
often  talked  it  for  the  sake  of  hearing  himself  talk. 
Nina  did  not  know  whether  to  be  merely  amused, 
or  whether,  if  she  should  be  anything  more,  to  be 
pleased  or  displeased.  She  had  never  seen  him  in 
this  mood  before.  She  had  got  some  sense  of  the 
deep  current  under  the  ripples  of  his  nature,  and 
she  did  not  know  whether  to  regard  these  trifling 
flashes  as  coming  from  the  surface  of  the  stream 
itself,  or  as  mere  will-o'-the-wisps  of  temporary  im- 
pulse. But  in  reality,  seldom  if  ever  had  Muriel 
talked  the  same  sort  of  nonsense  with  quite  the 
same  feeling. 

Once  while  Muriel  was  getting  poor  Sallie  Steb- 
bins  out  of  breath  with  some  disquisition  more 
profound  than  Calmire's  kind  taste  would  permit 
him  to  inflict  on  that  lady,  Nina  said  to  Mr. 
Courtenay: 

"Won't  you  tell  me  a  little  about  this  work  of 
yours  that  I  interrupted  so  rudely  ?" 

"  Dear  Miss  Wahring,"  he  answered,  "  will  you 


1 68  Faith  and  Fact. 

not  try  to  banish  your  regrets  over  that  harmless 
accident  ?  For  the  sake  of  helping  you  to,  I'm  al- 
most tempted  to  ask  you  not  to  speak  of  it  again." 

Nina  flushed  a  little  at  even  this  kind  opposi- 
tion; but  instantly  answered: 

"  I  will  try,  Mr.  Courtenay,  not  to  annoy  you 
with  it.  Now  tell  me  about  your  work,  please." 

"  Most  of  it  is  Mr.  Calmire's  work,  not  mine." 

Calmire,  who  had  a  faculty  for  following  the 
conversation  around  him  without  losing  the  thread 
of  his  own,  said  to  Mrs.  Wahring,  "Excuse  me 
a  second,"  and  turning,  smiling,  to  Courtenay, 
said:  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Courtenay,  but  I 
could  not  help  overhearing  you.  It  ought  not  to 
be  necessary  for  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  saying 
to  you  that  honesty  is  even  a  greater  virtue  than 
modesty.  Miss  Wahring  is  able  to  realize  that." 

Then  he  turned  and  resumed  where  he  had  left 
off  with  Mrs.  Wahring. 

Nina  returned  to  her  attack. 

"  Well,  as  you  were  about  to  say  regarding  Mr. 
Calmire's  work,  which  he  allows  you  the  privilege 
of  doing  for  him  ?" 

"  As  to  the  work  which  both  the  Messrs.  Cal- 
mire make  it  possible  for  me  to  do,  it's  a  good 
deal  in  the  nature  of  leading  the  horse  to  water. 
They  provide  the  water." 

"And  you  pump  it,"  interrupted  Calmire  again. 

"Well,  who's  the  horse,  and  what's  the  water, 
and  how  do  you  pump  it?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  necessary  for  Mr.  Calmire 
himself  to  explain  his  part  of  the  metaphor.  I'll 
gladly  explain  mine.  I  suppose  the  ordinary 


Faith  and  Fact.  169 

functions  of  a  minister  to  a  laboring  population 
must  include  much  more  attention  to  mere  phys- 
ical needs  than  mine  do.  Fortunately  there  is 
very  little  pauperism  here,  and  very  litle  sickness. 
There  is  in  the  very  air,  a  cleanliness  and  a  spirit 
of  industry  and  self-respect,  and  the  sanitary  ar- 
rangements of  the  town  are  perfect.  So  really 
I'm  able  to  work  more  exclusively  for  the  spiritual 
welfare  of  the  people.  Now  I  realize  that  making 
them  religious  is  greatly  helped  by  making  them 
intelligent." 

Muriel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Now  these  people,"  continued  Courtenay, 
"  come  here  desiring  neither  religion  nor  intelli- 
gence. Of  course  there  are  exceptions,  but  I  am 
speaking  of  the  mass  and,  naturally,  most  of  the 
new-comers.  But  one  thing  they  all  do  desire, 
and  that  is  amusement.  Now  our  programme  is 
simply  to  give  them  what  they  don't  want  by 
giving  them  what  they  do — to  amuse  them  in  ways 
that  develop  their  intelligence,  and  to  proceed  from 
that  to  their  religion." 

"'Speak  for  yourself  John!'"  quoted  Calmire 
with  a  smile. 

Courtenay  blushed  and  said:  "Perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  have  said  '  our  programme '  in  reference  to 
the  religion,  for  I  must  admit  that  regarding  that, 
Mr.  Calmire's  position  has  been  simply  that  of  a 
neutral — a  friendly  one,  though." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Calmire,  "  if  you'll  pardon  my 
interrupting  you  again,  you  may  find  yourself  able 
kindly  to  say  to  Miss  Wahring  that  you  have  not 


1 70  Faith  and  Fact. 

found  my  brother  and  me  exactly  neutral  regard- 
ing the  moral  condition  of  these  people." 

"  I  can  say  so,  most  sincerely.  The  influence  of 
these  gentlemen^  I  need  not  say  their  example — 
except  in  staying  away  from  church,"  he  inter- 
jected in  a  good-humored  way — "has  of  course 
always  been  on  the  side  of  good  morals.  But,  also 
of  course,  I'm  bound  to  believe  that  their  influ- 
ence would  be  even  better,  if  it  went  farther  in  the 
direction  of  religion." 

"  I  can't  see  how  anybody  is  bound 'to  believe  any- 
thing," again  interrupted  Muriel. 

"  Ah,  I  feared  so,"  said  Courtenay,  amiably. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'd  find  it  a  little  difficult  to  sup- 
port the  proposition  you  hint  at,  Muriel,"  said  Mr. 
Calmire. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Why,  if  we  don't  believe  what  we  know  to  be 
true,  all  basis  of  action  falls  to  pieces,  and  certainly 
we're  bound  to  prevent  that." 

"Yes!  'What  we  know  to  be  true.'  But  Lord! 
that's  not  what  gentlemen  of  Mr.  Courtenay's 
cloth  mean  when  they  say,  '  bound  to  believe.'  " 

"  His  expression  is  not  under  discussion,  but 
yours.  You  said  you  could  not  see  how  anybody 
is  bound  to  believe  anything.  Now  I  think  a  man 
is  morally  bound  to  believe,  for  instance,  that  two 
and  two  make  four." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Muriel,  "  and  that  three  times 
one  are  three  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"  But,"  said  Muriel,  "  Mr.  Courtenay  says  there 


Faith  and  Fact.  \  j  \ 

are  circumstances  under  which  three  times  one  are 
one." 

The  explosion  of  this  careless  bombshell  was  fol- 
lowed by  silence.  Courtenay  was  flushed,  and  all, 
even  Muriel  himself,  were  annoyed.  After  a  mo- 
ment, Nina's  clear  voice  uttered  : 

"  Mr.  Courtenay,  will  you  kindly  tell  me  a  little 
more  of  who  is  the  horse,  what  is  the  water,  and 
how  you  pump  it?" 

The  table  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  good  feeling 
was  saved.  Calmire  looked  at  Muriel  with  a  smile 
that  bordered  upon  a  frown,  which  Muriel  answered 
by  raising  his  eyebrows,  while  some  heavy  lines 
took  shape  about  his  mouth.  Then  Calmire  at 
once  began  talking  to  Mrs.  Wahring,  throwing 
Miss  Sallie  upon  Muriel's  attention,  and  leaving 
Courtenay  free  to  continue  with  Miss  Wahring. 

"With  pleasure,"  Courtenay  answered.  "The 
horse  is,  of  course,  the  people  here;  the  water  is 
the  material  provided  in  the  library  building,  more 
especially  in  the  lecture-room;  and  when  Mr.  Cal- 
mire is  good  enough  to  say  I  pump  it,  he  refers  to 
my  attempts  to  provide  lectures,  concerts,  and 
magic-lantern  shows." 

"  Delightful !  But  do  you  mean  me  to  under- 
stand that  it's  hard  to  lead  your  horse  to  such 
water?" 

"  It  ought  not  to  be,  and  has  not  always  been. 
But  just  now  I  am  encountering  an  unexpected 
difficulty." 

"  What's  that  ?"  asked  Calmire,  who  this  time 
was  in  a  temporary  pause  of  conversation. 

"  Ah,  I  haven't  had  an  opportunity  to  tell  you 


1 72  Faith  and  Fact. 

before.  I  have  felt  it,  but  only  learned  what  it  is, 
yesterday  after  church.  I  understand  that  the 
Catholic  priests  are  getting  jealous  of  our  influ- 
ence over  their  people,  and  are  prohibiting  their 
coming  to  our  entertainments." 

"  Why,  there's  been  no  attempt  at  proselyting 
their  people,  has  there?"  asked  Calmire  in  a  sud- 
den way  that  for  years  had  been  growing  less  fre- 
quent with  him. 

"  Unfortunately  I  have  been  able  to  make  very 
little,"  answered  Courtenay. 

Calmire's  face  grew  cloudy,  and  he  said:  "  I  fear 
the  attempt  to  make  any,  may  have  impeded  our 
efforts  to  do  these  people  good." 

Courtenay  answered:  "I  have  not  thought  it 
right  to  neglect  their  highest  good." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  Calmire,  "  the  only  way  to 
the  highest  good  is  through  the  attainable  good, 
and  the  highest  is  very  seldom  immediately  at- 
tainable." 

"  The  Catholic  Church  does  not  hesitate  to  prose- 
lyte, and  we  must  fight  her  with  her  own  weapons," 
answered  the  clergyman. 

"I'm  not  convinced  that  we  must  fight  her  at 
all,  at  least  directly,"  said  Calmire. 

"And  let  her  have  her  own  way?"  asked  the 
clergyman. 

"  Sometimes  that  is  the  most  dangerous  thing 
people  can  have,"  answered  Calmire. 

"  Well,  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  asked  Courtenay. 
"  Here  are  these  people  opposing  our  efforts  for 
the  good  of  the  poor  and  ignorant  in  this  town!" 

"  Make  allies  of  them," 


Faith  and  Fact.  173 

"Impossible!"  answered  Courtenay. 

"  Perhaps.     Have  you  tried  ?" 

"No." 

"  It  may  be  worth  trying." 

Nina  had  become  much  interested,  and  was 
turning  her  bright  face  to  one  speaker  and  the 
other,  awaiting  their  replies.  Calmire,  who  was 
opposite,  noticed  it;  so  did  Muriel,  who  was  at  the 
angle  of  the  table.  "Watch  out,  parson!"  he  said 
to  himself. 

"  I  had  never  thought  of  making  allies  of  them," 
said  Courtenay,  aloud. 

"  Neither  had  I,"  said  Calmire.  "  I'm  not  sure 
that  they  would  co-operate  if  you  were  to  try.  But 
there  can  be  no  harm  in  trying." 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  that,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  Why,  the  worst  you  could  do  would  be  to  fail." 

"  No!  It  might  be  worse  to  succeed,"  said  Cour- 
tenay. "  I  believe  it  would  inevitably  spoil  the 
work  for  the  Catholics  to  take  part  in  it." 

"It  might  limit  its  range,"  Calmire  admitted. 
"  But  it  begins  to  look  now  like  a  question  of  lim- 
iting its  range,  or  limiting  the  number  of  people 
whom  it  is  to  reach.  I  think  there  would  be  range 
enough,  though,  in  fields  that  the  Catholics  would 
not  object  to." 

"  You'd  have  to  keep  away  from  History,"  said 
Muriel. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  said  Calmire.  "  The  history 
most  necessary  for  these  people  to  know,  Catholics 
and  Protestants  are  agreed  about.  They  can  vote 
on  all  questions  likely  to  be  before  them,  without 


1/4  Faith  and  Fact. 

knowing  anything  of  Savonarola  or  Bloody  Mary, 
or  even  of  Christopher  Columbus." 

"Yes,"  said  Courtenay  ;  "but  I  should  hate  to 
have  our  work  kept  away  from  such  history  as 
bears  upon  religious  points.  I  hope  I  don't  want 
to  be  narrow  in  any  direction." 

Nina  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  which  some- 
how he  felt  he  only  half  deserved;  and  Calmire 
responded: 

"  So  should  I  hate  to  have  our  work  limited 
at  all.  But  I  have  found  few  things  that  are 
not  limited,  in  spite  of  all  we  can  do;  and  we 
generally  have  but  a  choice,  not  exactly  between 
two  evils,  but  between  two  limited  goods.  The 
choice  here  seems  to  be  between  influencing  only  a 
few  of  these  people,  or  being  a  little  discriminating 
in  selecting  methods  which  may  influence  them  all." 

"  You  mean  between  letting  some  of  them  go,  or 
working  with  the  Catholics  ?" 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  might  come  to  that." 

"Well,  then,  for  my  part,  I'd  let  them  go.  I 
couldn't  work  with  the  Catholics." 

"  Well,  I  hate  the  Catholics  pretty  well,"  blurted 
in  Muriel.  "  But  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'd  be  above 
using  them!" 

"They  might  use  you!"  quietly  observed  his 
uncle. 

"And  then  again  they  mightn't,"  said  Muriel. 
"  You're  not  afraid  they'd  use  you,  are  you,  Mr. 
Courtenay  ?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  said  Courtenay. 
"I  simply  could  not  work  with  them." 

"  Some   of   them   are  admirable   people,  as   the 


Faith  and  Fact.  175 

world  goes,"  Calmire  quietly  rejoined.  "  Of  course 
I  don't  mean  that  their  views  are  congenial  with 
my  own;  but,"  turning  his  eyes  full  on  Courtenay, 
"congenial  views  throughout,  are  not  necessary  to 
enable  one  to  honor  a  man  and  work  with  him." 

"  You  don't  insist  upon  people  believing  with  you, 
Mr.  Calmire.  The  Catholic  priests  do  insist  upon  it." 

"  I  thought,"  exclaimed  Muriel,  "  that  you'd 
been  trying  to  make  some  of  their  people  believe 
with  you." 

Courtenay's  face  reddened.  Nina  Wahring's  in- 
terested expression  changed  into  a  look  of  disap- 
proval, of  which,  however,  she  gave  Muriel  a  por- 
tion, and  Calmire  said,  promptly: 

"Well,  fortunately,  our  course  need  not  be  de- 
termined to-day,  and  we  can  determine  it  when  our 
discussion  need  not  trouble  anybody  but  ourselves." 

Mrs.  Calmire  arose,  and  as  the  ladies  followed 
her  into  the  drawing-room,  it  was  with  a  feeling 
of  strangeness  that  Courtenay  saw  Nina  disappear. 
Surely  it  was  unnatural  that  they  should  have  so 
long  been  side  by  side  without  the  tie  which  God 
himself  had  placed  between  them  being  recognized 
and  even  mutually  acknowledged.  Yet  there  she 
was,  wandering  off  from  him  as  unresponsively  as 
any  other  young  woman  whom  he  had  ever  taken 
in  to  dinner. 

He  knew,  though.  The  hope  and  faith  were  in 
his  soul,  and  in  the  good  time  of  Him  who  placed 
them  there,  they  should  be  vindicated. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

COURTENAY    AND    HIS   SISTER. 

THOUGH  the  day  had  been  hot,  the  evening  was 
cool,  so  the  men  smoked  in  the  dining-room  instead 
of  on  the  piazza,  and  Courtenay,  though  he  did 
not  smoke,  stayed  with  the  men.  When  they  joined 
the  ladies,  it  was  only  to  say  good-night,  as  the 
Fleuvemont  party  had  their  drive  before  them. 
Courtenay,  however,  lingered  to  see  the  last  of 
Nina,  and  placed  himself  beside  her  to  walk  out 
to  the  carriage.  This  aroused  a  little  resentful 
feeling  in  Muriel,  though  whether  it  arose  solely 
from  Courtenay's  appropriating  what  for  the  nonce 
Muriel  considered  his  property,  he  did  not  stop  to 
consider.  His  feeling  of  even  a  proprietary  in- 
terest, would  have  surprised  him  a  little,  if  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  examining  his  feelings. 

On  the  drive  home,  he  sat  behind  with  Nina,  as 
before.  His  first  remark  naturally  was: 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  the  parson  ?" 

"  He  has  simply  the  most  beautiful  face  I  ever 
saw,"  she  answered. 

"  Nice  thing,  that,  for  a  man  to  have!"  was  his 
comment. 

"  I  don't  think  it  lacks  firmness,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Muriel,  "  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it 

176 


Courtenay  and  his  Sister.  1 77 

could  even  get  as  far  as  stubbornness.  But  how 
do  you  like  the  man  himself?" 

"  He  appears  to  me  very  noble  !"  she  answered. 
"  Perhaps  he's  not  as  catholic-minded  as  some 
people,  but  we  can't  expect  everybody  to  be  very 
much  so." 

Muriel  came  as  near  wincing  as  he  was  capable 
of,  and  changed  the  subject. 

"  Do  you  think  he's  as  beautiful  as  his  sister?" 

"  As  his  sister?     Why,  I  never  saw  his  sister." 

"  Why,  didn't  I  tell  you,"  ejaculated  Muriel, "  that 
Mary  is  his  sister — that  woman  you  admired  so  the 
first  day  you  came  here?" 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  Nina.  "  Why,  they're 
no  more  alike  than  the  two  poles  !" 

"The  two  poles  are  very  much  alike,  I  suspect," 
answered  Muriel,  "at  least  in  a  certain  family  re- 
semblance— probably  a  great  deal  more  alike  than 
Courtenay  and  Mary." 

"  Well,  do  tell  me  all  about  them,"  said  Nina. 
"  They're  the  most  interesting  people  I  ever  saw." 

"  Thank  you  !"  said  Muriel. 

"  Oh  you  egoist !"  exclaimed  Nina.  "  You  un- 
paralleled egoist  !  Are  you  always  thinking  of 
yourself?" 

"  Well,  I'll  be  blessed  if  I  know.  I  know  that 
lately  I've  sometimes  wished  I  didn't.  But  I've  gen- 
erally been  so  awfully  to  myself,  you  see — friends 
enough,  but  not  many  to  be  with  and  think  about 
all  the  time — like  parents  and  brothers  and  sisters." 

"  You  poor  boy  !  And  yet  the  first  time  we  drove 
over  here,  you  wouldn't  let  me  pity  you.  Perhaps 
you  don't  like  me  to  now." 


1 78  Courtenay  and  his  Sister. 

"  Yes,  I  do.     Do  it  some  more!" 

"  Stop  your  nonsense  and  tell  me  all  about  Miss 
Courtenay." 

"  I  wish  I  could.  There's  history  written  all  over 
her.  But  I  can't  get  at  it.  There's  religious  trouble 
in  it  somewhere,  I  judge  from  'several  things.  I 
suspect  Uncle  Grand  knows  all  about  it,  and  per- 
haps Aunt  Amelia:  but  nobody  ever  pumped  either 
of  them  in  this  world,  or  ever  will  in  the  world  to 
come,  if  there's  any  such  institution." 

"What  a  horrid,  horrid  infidel  you  are!  But 
anyhow,  tell  me  what  you  know  about  her." 

"  Well  !  She  lives  all  alone  and  keeps  a  little 
school  for  the  better  children.  And  she  also  runs 
a  sort  of  hospital  for  all  sorts  of  broken-down 
people,  especially  for  city  brats  and  their  mothers 
in  Summer." 

"  But  where  does  she  get  the  money  to  do  that?" 

"  Oh,  I  suspect  Aunt  Amelia  knows.  But  she 
never  tells  such  things,  neither  does  John  nor 
Uncle  Grand." 

"But  why  does  she  live  all  alone?"  asked  Nina. 
"I  should  think  she'd  keep  house  for  her  bro- 
ther." 

"Well,  that's  one  of  the  mysteries  about  her," 
Muriel  answered. 

"Don't  she  and  her  brother  get  along?"  asked 
Nina. 

"They  seem  to — perfectly.  But  she  never  goes 
to  his  church,  though." 

"  How  very  strange  !  But  I'm  surprised  that 
people  trust  their  children  to  her,  then." 

"Oh,  that's  because  it's  the  fashion,  I  suppose.. 


Courtenay  and  his  Sister. 

Aunt  Amelia  started  with  her  brood,  and  all  her 
friends  followed  suit.  Besides,  everybody  loves 
Mary,  though  I  understand  that  she  has  fits  of  the 
dumps,  when  she'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  anybody 
but  the  children  and  poor  folks,for  days  at  a  time." 

"Not  even  with  Mrs.  John  ?"  asked  Nina.  "I 
should  think  it  would  relieve  any  burdened  soul  to 
be  near  her." 

"  No,  not  even  Aunt  Amelia.  But  I  forgot  that 
even  at  such  times,  Mary  likes  to  see  Uncle  Grand." 

"Won't  she  even  see  her  brother?" 

"  I  have  an  idea  not.  But  this  is  all  largely  con- 
jecture on  my  part — made  from  putting  this  and 
that  together." 

"Why,  you  seem  interested  in  her,"  said  Nina. 
"  But  I  don't  wonder.  I  never  was  so  drawn  to 
anybody  by  a  mere  glimpse." 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  "  if  she  weren't  nearly  old 
enough  to  be  my  mother,  I  think  I'd  be  in  love 
with  her." 

"Why,  do  you  know  her  very  well?" 

"  About  as  well  as  I  know  the  Virgin  Mary.  She 
always  seems  to  me  just  about  that  far  off,  but  just 
about  as  benign  and  lovely." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  never  spoke  to  her?" 

"  No,  but  I  do  mean  that  she  always  seems  above 
our  world — at  least  above  my  world,"  the  boy 
added,  in  a  tone  that  was  very  new  in  him. 

"Mr.  Muriel  Calmire,"  exclaimed  Nina,  "you're 
the  strangest  man  I  ever  saw !  Is  this  humility, 
that  you're  treating  me  to  a  glimpse  of  now?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It's  something  or  other  inspired 
by  a  lovely  woman.  They  always  make  me  good. 


180  Court enay  and  his  Sister. 

I've  suspected  you  of  doing  it  once  or  twice.  Why 
don't  you  keep  it  up?" 

"  Because  I've  been  lovely  only  once  or  twice, 
I'm  afraid,"  said  Nina,  simply. 

"  Is  this  a  glimpse  of  humility  you're  treating  me 
to?"  said  Muriel,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  the  same  quiet  and 
utterly  simple  way. 

"  Well,  it's  something  rather  nice,  whatever  it 
is  !"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  Thank  you  !"  she  answered,  and  they  both 
laughed  a  moment  and  were  still.  After  a  little 
she  asked: 

"  Haven't  you  any  guesses,  even,  regarding  Miss 
Courtenay's  history  ?" 

"  Oh  !  of  course  she  lost  a  lover  once!  That 
goes  without  saying." 

"  But  it's  so  queer,"  said  Nina,  "  that  she  doesn't 
live  with  her  brother." 

"And  doesn't  go  to  church,"  added  Muriel, 
"  especially  as  she's  a  parson's  daughter,  as  well  as 
a  parson's  sister.  A  queerer  thing  is  that  she  never 
goes  to  see  her  parents,  and  her  father  never  corrres 
here.  Her  mother  has  been  here." 

"Well,"  said  Nina,  "  Mr.  Calmire  has  got  to  tell 
me  that  story  sometime — if  it's  right  that  I  should 
know  it." 

"  Perhaps  Mary  will  tell  you  herself,"  said  Mu- 
riel. "  You  seem  on  the  way  to  be  great  friends 
with  her." 

"  She  is  l  friends  '  with  people,  then  ?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Muriel;  "everybody  in  trouble 
goes  to  her — especially  lovers  and  sich,  and  she  and 


Courtenay  and  his  Sister.  1 8 1 

Aunt  Amelia  and  Courtenay  take  care  of  every  sick 
cat  in  town." 

"  A  proceeding  which  you  don't  seem  to  approve 
very  heartily,"  said  Nina. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  don't  bother  my  head 
much  about  it." 

"  And  yet  you  do  bother  your  head  over  some 
serious  things,"  she  persisted. 

"  Oh  yes,  the  big  things,"  he  answered;  "  but  I'm 
not  much  on  sick  cats  and  that  sort  of  thing  !" 

"  Have  you  ever  been  sick  any  yourself  ?"  she 
asked. 

"Do  I  look  like  it?" 

"  No,  nor  talk  like  it  either." 

"Yet,"  said  Muriel,  almost  as  if  musing  aloud, 
"  the  best  fellow  in  our  class  didn't  seem  ever  to  be 
quite  well." 

"  He  wasn't  the  same  sort  of  a  good  fellow  that 
you  are,  was  he  ?" 

"  Not  by  a  long  shot.  Guess  he's  a  better  fellow 
than  I  am." 

"  And  there  you  go  again  !"  exclaimed  Nina,  ap- 
provingly. After  a  little  while  she  asked:  "How 
good  a  fellow  is  Mr.  Courtenay?" 

"  Oh,  he'll  do,  in  his  way.  But  he's  rather  hide- 
bound." 

This  irritated  Nina  a  little,  and  she  answered: 

"  Are  you  sure  that  he's  more  '  hidebound, 'as  you 
call  it,  than  some  young  men  who  differ  with  him  ?" 

"  Mean  me  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"Does  the  cap  fit?" 

"  Of  course  not !  I've  outgrown  all  that  stuff, 
long  ago." 


ig2  Courtenay  and  his  Sister. 

"  But  haven't  you  grown  into  any  other  stuff  ?" 

"  Not  the  kind  that  ties  a  fellow  up." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Simply  that  you  sometimes  appear  as  blind  to 
the  good  on  his  side,  as  you  would  say  he  is  to  the 
truth — or  what  you  call  the  truth — on  yours." 

"  I  don't  know;  I  hope  not,"  said  Muriel  in  a 
quiet,  candid  way  that  surprised  Nina.  "  I  hadn't 
thought  of  that." 

"  It's  worth  thinking  of  !"  She  smiled  as  she  re- 
iterated the  old  formula  for  the  dozenth  time,  and 
they  both  laughed. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE    ALL-INCLUDING. 

AFTER  some  alternations  of  silence  and  indif- 
ferent chat,  they  got  into  the  open  country  and 
under  the  dome  of  the  stars.  It  was  a  thoughtful 
night — not  one  with  moonlight's  constant  chal- 
lenge to  admire  and  enjoy,  or  with  deep  darkness's 
gloom  and  appeal  to  inherited  fears;  but  a  night 
when  the  stars  have  an  individuality  not  only  of 
size,  but  of  distance,  so  that  one  seems  to  realize 
them  not  merely  as  spots  of  light,  but  as  tangible 
bodies  near  and  far. 

After  the  two  young  people  had  pondered  quietly 
for  a  while,  Nina  said: 

"  Who  made  the  star-dust  ?" 

"  The  same  man  that  made  the  stars,  I  suppose," 
Muriel  answered. 

"  I  thought  you  fought  against  the  idea  that 
anybody  like  a  man  made  either  !"  remarked  the 
lady  rather  impatiently. 

"  How  exceedingly  literal  even  the  brightest 
women  are!"  ejaculated  the  youth,  and  after  a  little 
pause,  continued:  "It  was  out  of  deference  to 
your  opinions  that  I  used  the  word  man.  Far  be 
it  from  me  to  limit  the  cause  of  this  universe  to 
anything  our  intelligence  can  grasp.  Spencer 

183 


1 84  The  A  ll-including. 

suggests,  you  know,  that  the  universe  may  be  due 
to  something  as  far  transcending  intelligence  as 
intelligence  transcends  mechanical  action." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  Nina,  "  though  perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  known.  The  idea  appears  to  me 
immense  and  vague." 

Calmire  turned  from  the  front  seat  and  said: 

"  Doesn't  it  look  as  if  ideas  must  grow  vague  as 
they  grow  immense?  I  wonder  if  that's  not  one 
reason  why  the  farther  we  get  in  comprehension 
of  the  Infinite,  the  farther  we  are  from  believing 
that  we  comprehend  it.  The  wisest  men  that  I 
have  known,  have  been  the  most  modest." 

Muriel  went  on  to  Nina:  "  That  particular  idea 
about  the  Power  behind  the  universe  won't  ap- 
pear so  vague  after  you  get  used  to  it,  but  if 
people  are  honest,  they've  got  to  be  content 
with  many  vague  ideas  on  subjects  that  are  beyond 
their  grasp.  People  who  are  not,  manufacture  the 
religions." 

"  Dogmas,  you  mean  !"  Calmire  interjected  again. 

"Confound  your  omniscience,  Uncle  Grand!" 
exclaimed  Muriel.  "  Can't  you  help  hearing  every- 
thing that  everybody  says?  I  can't  talk  for  Miss 
Wahring  and  you  too." 

"Don't  try,"  said  Calmire,  laughing.  "Talk  to 
her.  Anything  worth  her  hearing,  is  worth  any- 
body's." 

But  during  the  rest  of  the  talk,  Muriel  did  have 
a  little  self-consciousness  that  his  uncle  would  hear 
without  listening;  but,  though  that  may  have  kept 
him  a  little  more  careful  than  he  otherwise  would 
have  been,  the  sympathy  between  him  and  his 


The  All-including.  185 

uncle  was  too  great,  despite  Muriel's  boyish  tan- 
gents, to  permit  any  serious  embarrassment. 

"Well,  Miss  Nina,"  he  resumed,  "do  you  really 
want  to  know  about  the  star-dust?" 

"  Certainly,  unless  it's  one  of  the  subjects  which 
you  alluded  to  a  moment  ago,  that  my  mind  can't 
grasp." 

"  Look  here  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  didn't  mean 
your  mind  any  more  than  anybody's  else.  There 
are  lots  of  things  which  we've  all  got  to  be  content 
not  to  know." 

"  To  be  agnostic  ?"  she  queried. 

"  Yes,  just  exactly  so.  But  there  are  things 
about  which  it's  legitimate  to  guess,  and  others 
about  which  it's  foolish  to  guess." 

"Is  it  legitimate  to  guess  about  the  star-dust?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  because  we  see  things  actually  going  on 
that  suggest  what  it  is." 

"What  is  it,  then  ?" 

"It's  smithereens!" 

"  Now,  Muriel  Calmire!  can't  you  ever  be  serious 
two  minutes  together?  What  in  the  world  do  you 
mean  by  that  word,  if  you  mean  anything?"  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  addressed  him  without 
the  "  Mister." 

"  I'm  perfectly  serious,"  he  replied.  "  Smith- 
ereens is  the  very  entirest,  most  completest  smash 
that  anything  can  be  knocked  into.  Didn't  you 
ever  hear  of  a  gentleman  proposing  to  knock 
another  gentleman  into  smithereens?  that's  what 
star-dust  is.  It  wasn't  made  by  Jack  Heenan, 
though,  or  even  by  any  of  the  more  pious  people. 


1 86  The  All-including. 

such  as  Torquemada  or  the  Duke  of  Alva,  who 
liked  to  hash  up  their  neighbors  for  conscience' 
sake." 

Ninacould  not  help  laughing  with  him  a  little,  and 
then  said: 

"Well  now  do  be  serious  and  tell  me  how  it  was 
made.  Of  course  you  know,  as  you  know  every- 
thing." 

"  Madam,  I  am  an  agnostic.  The  foundation 
of  my  creed  is,  that  I  don't  know  everything,  and, 
what's  more,  that  I  can't.  The  foundation  of  my 
moral  character  is  modesty.  The  trouble  with 
you  is,  that  you  don't  know  when  I  am  serious." 

"  Well,  I  confess  that  it  takes  more  penetration 
than  I'm  mistress  of,"  she  admitted.  "  Now  if 
that  satisfies  you,  go  on  and  tell  me  how  the  star- 
dust  got  knocked  into  smith — that  ridiculous 
word." 

"  It  wasn't  the  star-dust,  but  the  stars,"  he  said. 
A  lot  of  them  bumped  into  each  other  and  had  a 
general  pulverization." 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  who  was  there  to  see  it, 
or  how  he  survived  to  tell  the  tale,"  laughed  Nina. 

"  Of  course  we  don't  know  it,"  said  Muriel,  "  even 
as  well  as  we  know  that  the  Sun  flung  off  the 
planets,  or  the  planets  the  moons." 

"  That  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  'know,' >; 
broke  in  Calmire.  "  Some  wise  men  think  we  do.'; 

"So  we  do!"  exclaimed  Muriel.  "Thank  you. 
Uncle  Grand." 

"But  watch  out  now,  Muriel,"  said  Calmire; 
"you're  getting  on  disputed  ground." 

"Well,"  continued  Muriel,  "what  I  was  going  to 
gay  looks  mighty  consistent  anyhow,  and  the  men 


The  All-including.  187 

with  the  biggest  grip  take  it  in,  whatever  the  dry- 
asdusts  do.  It's  denied  only  by  a  lot  of  duffers 
who  haven't  any  imagination." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  Calmire  cautioned 
him  again.  "  If  you  began  to  realize  what  harm 
imagination  has  done,  you  wouldn't  blame  anybody 
for  using  it  cautiously.  You're  now  among  a  lot 
of  hypotheses  that  few  working  astronomers  are 
yet  quite  ready  to  call  proven." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,  Uncle  Grand  ?" 

"The  rhythms  of  evolution  and  dissolution?" 
asked  Calmire.  "  It  looks  very  tempting — pro- 
vided," he  added  with  a  laugh,  "one's  sympathies 
are  not  pained  by  the  thought  of  so  much  disso- 
lution. But  that's  a  thought  that  we've  got  to 
harden  ourselves  against  anyhow,  for  it  seems  plain, 
at  best,  that  every  orb  in  the  universe  is  going  to 
become  cold  and  dead  some  day,  like  the  moon." 

"Well,  the  'hypotheses'  suit  me,"  exclaimed 
Muriel  after  a  moment's  musing. 

"So do  my  faithssuit  me," said  Nina, "and  haven't 
I  as  much  right  to  them  as  you  to  your  guesses  ?" 

"Heavens,  no!  Why,  I've  something  to  guess 
on,  but  you  believe  lots  of  things  that  are  made 
out  of  the  whole  cloth." 

Well,"  said  Nina,  partly  as  if  resigning  herself, 
"tell  me  your  guesses." 

"Lord,  they're  not  mine!"  ejaculated  the  boy. 

"  Modest  again!"  exclaimed  Nina  very  pleasantly. 
"  But  go  on  with  them,  please." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  Muriel  went  on, "  we've  reason  to 
believe  from  the  laws  of  physics,  though  we  haven't 
had  time  for  actual  measurement,  that  the  moon  is 
slowly  approaching  the  earth;  and  the  earth,  the 


1 8  8  The  A  It-including, 

Sun.  So  presumably  all  the  other  orbs  in  the 
system,  and  in  all  systems,  are  approaching  each 
other.  The  little  ones  will  inevitably  fall  into  the 
big  ones  some  day,  and  when  they  do,  they'll  become 
star-dust  again.  If  the  moon  were  to  fall  into  the 
earth  now,  it  would  be  dissipated  into  nebulous 
matter  that  would  reach  beyond  its  orbit." 

"  Gracious  Heavens,  Cousin  Calmire!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Wahring,  who  had  been  listening  since  Calmire 
last  spoke,  "  do  drive  under  cover  somewhere  !" 

"  I  don't  think  we  need  to  hurry,"  said  Calmire. 
"  We've  some  millions  of  years  yet.  Besides,  if  the 
moon  hits  us,  or  if  we  tumble  into  the  Sun,  the 
attraction  of  the  larger  body  will  hold  the  sub- 
stance of  the  smaller  one  in  some  form  or  other — 
perhaps  atmospheric.  To  get  a  bump  big  enough 
for  a  fresh  start  all  around,  the  two  bodies  would 
have  to  be  of  near  the  same  size.  So  you  see  our 
individuality,  at  least  as  part  of  our  system,  is  not 
in  such  immediate  danger." 

"  Oh  I'm  so  consoled  !"  said  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  But  I'm  afraid  you've  got  to  come  to  it  sooner 
or  later,"  insisted  Muriel.  "  It  looks  very  much 
as  if,  after  you're  part  of  the  Sun,  you'll  go 
bumping  up  against  some  other  sun  some  day  and 
then,  I  really  am  afraid,  your  physical  identity, 
even  as  part  of  the  Sun,  will  be  disturbed  beyond 
recovery." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  my  poor  husband  isn't  here  to 
be  harrowed  by  this  tale,"  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"  I'm  here,  mamma,"  observed  Nina,  "  but  I'll 
stick  by  you — even  then." 

After  their  little  laugh,  when  Calmire  had  re- 


The  All-including.  189 

sumed  talking  to  Mrs.  Wahring,  Muriel  went  on  : 

"  You  see,  after  enough  of  these  things  fall 
together — " 

"  But  why  should  they  fall  together  ?"  Nina  in- 
terrupted. 

"Why,  if  they  keep  on  attracting  each  other, 
they've  got  to,  haven't  they  ?" 

"  But  they  attract  each  other  so  little — 'as  you  do 
me,  for  instance,'  to  quote  your  illustration  of  the 
other  night."  Her  manner  made  the  speech  agree- 
able despite  its  touch  of  sarcasm,  and  it  was  a  pity 
that  he  could  not  catch  the  expression  of  her  face. 

"  Then  they've  got  to  be  just  so  much  longer 
about  it,"  said  Muriel,  too  intent  on  his  topic  to 
invent  a  prompt  reply  to  her  badinage.  "  But  it's 
got  to  come  all  the  same" — "Just  as  some  other 
things  have,"  he  was  surprised  to  find  added  in 
his  mind.  But  his  imagination  was  constantly 
rounding  out  things  in  that  way,  and  young  as  he 
was,  he  had  made  some  progress  in  suppressing 
its  suggestions,  though  he  got  into  a  good  many 
scrapes  from  not  suppressing  more.  He  put  this 
one  under,  not  very  summarily  however,  and  went 
on:  "  We're  going  for  some  sun  in  Hercules  now, 
you  know,  just  as  Uncle  Grand  said.  Probably 
we're  too  far  off  to  have  picked  out  the  exact  one, 
but  when  we  get  there,  there'll  be  a  dust  raised,  I 
can  tell  you  !" 

"  Oh  Muriel,"  exclaimed  Calmire,  "  we  don't 
know  that.  We  haven't  had  time  to  see  whether 
things  are  really  working  in  that  direction." 

"Well,  isn't  it  a  healthy  guess  ?" 

"  Herschel    felt  pretty  sure  of  it,"  Calmire  an- 


19°  The  All-including. 

swered,  "  and  some  of  the  rest  are  nearly  ready  to 
accept  it.  Yet  most  hold  out  against  it  as  '  not 
proven.'  " 

"  There's  a  mighty  sight  more  reason  for  you  to 
believe  it,  Miss  Nina,"  Muriel  continued,  "  than  to 
believe  lots  of  other  things  that  you  do.  Well, 
just  as  T  explained  to  you  the  other  night,  the  star- 
dust  rushes  into  suns,  planets,  moons,  and  then 
again,  in  time,  those  moons,  planets,  suns,  will 
rush  together  and  make  new  nebulae,  and  " — here 
Muriel's  voice  began  to  sound  like  his  uncle's,  and 
he  spoke  meditatively — "  so  have  come,  and  so 
will  come,  evolution  and  dissolution — evolution, 
dissolution — through  times  and  spaces  before 
which  our  intellects  are  absolutely  powerless — 
this  ineffably  beautiful  infinity  above  us  and  in- 
cluding us,  throbbing  with  rhythms  beside  which 
our  lives  are  vastly  less  than  the  smallest  star  is 
beside  that  milky-way;  and  yet  those  vast  rhythms 
are  but  the  pulses  of  the  Universe.  I  don't  know 
which  moves  me  the  more — the  immensity  or  the 
order  of  it  all.  I  suppose  that's  about  the  vastest 
conception  the  human  mind  has  yet  attained." 

"  Yes,  stupendous  !"  exclaimed  Nina.  But  after 
a  little  awed  silence,  she  added:  "And  yet,  Mr. 
Muriel,  it  seems  to  me  a  hopeless  sort  of  concep- 
tion, tremendous  as  it  is: — nothing  fixed — nothing 
permanent — nothing  really  attained  !" 

"  Well,"  answered  Muriel,  "  we've  attained  the 
Iliad — and  Miss  Nina  Wahring  !  And  I  won't  ad- 
mit them  to  be  nothing." 

"  But  the  Iliad  has  got  to  go  too  !"  Nina  mod- 
estly objected. 


The  A  ll-induding,  1 9 i 

"  There's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on  that  ques- 
tion," interrupted  Calmire,  turning  again.  "  But 
the  fact  that  the  conception  Muriel  has  been  re- 
counting raises  the  question,  interferes  with  its 
being  really  the  vastest  conception  yet  attained  : 
There  are  conceptions  just  as  wide,  which  are  more 
certain  and  not  so  mechanical,  and,  perhaps  you 
would  say,  not  so  hopeless." 

"  Oh  give  me  one  !"  cried  Nina.  "This  tremen- 
dous dream  of  constantly  recurring  death  smothers 
me." 

"  There's  not  time  to-night.  Let  Muriel  give  you 
something  else  to  catch  your  breath  with." 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  tell  you  about?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Oh  I  don't  know  !  Anything.  Yes,"  she  ex- 
claimed after  a  moment,  "  there  is  one  thing  you 
told  me  the  other  night  about  the  way  the  stars 
were  made,  which  puzzles  me  a  great  deal.  Why 
did  the  dust  get  hot  when  it  rushed  together? 
Why  do  my  hands  get  hot  when  I  rub  them  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  anything  about  the  law  of  the 
Persistence  of  Force  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  in  the  way  that,  I'm  beginning  to  find, 
girls  always  know  things!  At  school  I  studied  a 
little  about  what  my  book  called  the  Conservation 
of  Energy.  The  teacher  asked  us  questions  and  we 
told  her  what  was  in  the  book,  all  in  half  an  hour, 
and  that  was  the  last  I  thought  about  it.  I  won- 
der if  it's  what  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  with  an  inflection  of  despair- 
ing pity.  But  an  idea  struck  him:  "  Weren't  you 
telling  me  the  other  day  that  you  once  went  to  see 
a  place  where  they  made  electricity  ?" 


t92  The  All-including. 

«  Yes." 

"  Well,  where  did  your  people  get  their  electric- 
ity?" 

"From  the  steam-engine,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  that  steam-engine  gave  out  nothing  but 
force,  did  it  ?" 

"  No,  it  supplied  the  force  that  whirled  the 
things  that  made  the  electricity — something  like 
dynamics,  they  call  them." 

"  Dynamos,  you  mean,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  Now 
don't  you  see  that  (to  put  it  roughly)  the  force  was 
turned  into  electricity,  just  as,  later,  the  electricity 
was  turned  into  light  ?  And  if  you  turn  the  elec- 
tricity into  heat  instead  of  light,  and  put  the  heat 
under  the  boiler,  you'll  get  back  again  to  mechani- 
cal force,  and  can  start  the  engines  over  again." 

"  Why,  how  interesting  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  It's 
'swingin'  round  the  circle.'" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Now  you  see  how  force 
and  heat  are  but  different  forms  of  the  same  thing, 
and  it's  not  so  hard  to  understand  how  the  force 
of  the  star-dust  rushing  together  was  turned  into 
heat.  But  what  I've  given  you,  is  not  the  most  in- 
teresting circle  that  Force  swings  around." 

"  No  ?     What  is  ?" 

"  Before  the  engine  developed  the  electricity, 
where  did  it  get  its  own  force  ?"  he  asked. 

"From  the  steam." 

"And  that?" 

"Well,  it  must  have  had  something  to  do  with 
the  fire." 

"  And  that  ?" 

"  From  the  coal." 


The  All-including.  193 

"And  that?" 

"  Now  you're  too  hard  for  me." 

"Well,  you  know  that  the  coal  is  ancient  vegeta- 
tion. The  matter  composing  it  was  brought  to- 
gether in  plants  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  In  separat- 
ing, in  the  fire,  it  gives  off  that  heat  again.  To  put 
it  a  little  more  precisely,  the  union  of  the  plant's  ele- 
ments was  effected  by  the  sun's  heat  turning  into 
chemical  energy.  The  separation  of  the  same  ele- 
ments is  effected  by  turning  the  chemical  energy 
that  holds  them  together,  back  into  heat." 

"  Electric  light  is  sunlight,  then!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Certainly,  a  form  of  it.  So  is  all  other  light 
on  earth." 

At  the  time  of  the  publication  of  this  narrative, 
the  learned  do  not  interchange  the  terms  "force" 
and  "  energy,"  as  freely  as  was  often  done  when 
Mr.  Muriel  attempted  his  demonstration;  and  the 
new  views  of  electricity  also  tend  to  make  that 
demonstration  appear  rather  primitive.  But  those 
views,  after  all,  only  confirm  and  widen  the  general 
principle  he  expounded,  which  is  the  main  point. 

He  went  on  with  his  topic.  "But  even  making 
electricity  is  not  the  most  interesting  way  that  a 
plant  has  of  disposing  of  the  sun's  energy.  When 
the  plant  is  eaten  by  an  animal,  its  energy  becomes 
part  of  that  of  the  animal  and  helps  do  his  moving, 
seeing,  hearing,  tasting,  feeling,  and  thinking." 

"  Why,"  said  the  girl,  in  wonder,  "  I  knew  that 
eating  plants,  or  eating  animals  that  have  eaten 
them,  made  us  grow  and  enabled  us  to  take  exer- 
cise; but  I  didn't  know  that  our  thinking  and  feel- 
ing had  anything  to  do  with  our  eating." 


'94  The  All-including. 

"Well,  it  has,"  said  Muriel.  "But  Lord!  how 
ignorant  they  let  you  girls  grow  up  !" 

"  Did  you  know  these  things  when  you  were  my 
age  ?"  she  asked. 

"Why  no!"  he  exclaimed  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection. "  We  didn't  have  them  till  Junior  year." 

"Well,  this  is  my  Freshman  year,"  she  said, 
laughing.  "  Now  tell  me  some  more  about  food 
and  mind." 

"Don't  you  know,"  he  resumed,  "that  you  can't 
think  or  feel  without  matter  in  your  nervous  sys- 
tem changing  place,  and  that  that  change  is  made 
by  the  force  you  get  through  your  food  and  air?" 

"  No,  they  didn't  teach  us  that  at  school,"  she 
responded.  "It's  very  wonderful." 

"  I  suppose  they  didn't  teach  that,  because  it's 
what  they  call  materialism,"  said  Muriel.  "  It's 
true,  though:  thought's  nothing  but  another  mode 
of  force." 

"  Check,  there,  Muriel !"  Calmire  interrupted. 
Then  he  excused  himself  to  Mrs.  Wahring,  and 
continued  to  Muriel  and  Nina,  a  piece  of  noiseless 
road  making  it  easy  for  him  to  be  heard  : 

"Thought  is  not  a  mere  mode  of  force.  Why, 
with  sufficient  instruments  one  could  see  all  those 
changes  in  nerve,  but  one  could  not  see  thought. 
The  thought  accompanies  the  nerve-change,  but  it 
is  about  as  reasonable  to  make  them  identical  be- 
cause they  are  simultaneous,  as  it  would  be  to  make 
thought  identical  with  change  in  countenance  or 
voice,  because  they  also  are  simultaneous.  The 
realm  of  force  and  matter  is  one  thing, — visible,  tan- 
gible, or  at  least  measurable, — and  nerve  and  nerve- 


The  All-including.  195 

changes  belong  in  it.  But  the  realm  of  thought 
is  invisible,  intangible,  unmeasurable.  We  can 
keep  track  of  the  matter  and  force  as  they  go  into 
your  brain  and  as  they  come  out,  and  some  day 
we'll  really  measure  them  and  the  changes  which 
take  place  in  them  while  one  thinks  and  feels 
— in  fact  we  can  measure  the  pulse-beats  stimu- 
lated by  our  feelings  now  :  but  we  can't  meas- 
ure the  feelings  themselves,  except  by  infer- 
ence. You  can't  even  think  of  feeling  as  measur- 
able like  nerve-function,  and  there  is  no  bridge 
between  the  two.  All  assertions  to  the  contrary 
are  but  forms  of  words,  and  the  idea  of  applying  an 
instrument  to  thoughts  and  feelings,  or  of  treating 
them  in  any  way  as  we  treat  the  nerve-changes  col- 
lateral with  them,  is  simply  inconceivable." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Muriel,  "if  thought  is  not  a 
mode  of  force,  what  is  it  then  ?" 

"  That's  exactly  what  we  don't  know,"  answered 
Calmire.  "  But  we  know  very  well  what  it  is  not, 
and  it  is  not  anything  we  know  of  but  itself.  It  is 
as  nearly  an  ultimate  fact  as  force  or  matter — more 
nearly,  for  it  is  behind  all  our  notions  of  them. 
Py  the  way,  though,  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  that 
consciousness,  rather  than  thought,  is  behind  those 
notions,  but  for  the  purposes  of  our  talk,  it's  hardly 
necessary  to  go  into  such  distinctions." 

"Guess  I'll  wait,"  said  Muriel,  "and  not  up- 
set what  you've  had  to  say,  this  evening.  Yet  I 
know  lots  of  fellows  who  think  as  I've  been  think- 
ing." 

"  Oh  well,"  said  Calmire,  "  there's  a  stage  at 
which  fellows  jump  at  anything  new,  if  it's  only 


196  The  All-including. 

startling  and  subversive  enough.  But  it's  odd  that 
that  stupid  blunder  should  deceive  anybody.  Sav- 
ing your  presence,  I  don't  know  that  it  ever  has 
deceived  any  really  eminent  person,  though  emi- 
nent blatherskites  have  done  a  deal  of  chattering 
over  it." 

"  Farther  instruction  in  materialism  from  me," 
said  Muriel  to  Nina,  "  is  indefinitely  postponed, 
until  I've  had  a  little  time  to  examine  my  opinions. 
But,"  he  continued,  "  I  suppose  you'll  admit,  Uncle 
Grand,  that  we  know  nothing  of  thought  except 
in  connection  with  nerve-change  ?" 

-  "  Certainly,"  said  Calmire.  "  And  we  know  noth- 
ing of  the  sensation  of  light  except  in  connection, 
direct  or  indirect,  with  incandescent  matter,  but  that 
does  not  make  the  sensation  of  light  the  same 
thing  with  incandescent  matter."  Then  he  con- 
tinued his  chat  with  Mrs  Wahring. 

Muriel  resumed  to  Nina:  "  Well,  force  is  still  a 
fact  that  accompanies  everything,  and  in  a  sense  at 
least,  causes  everything.  Even  if  it  is  not  thought, 
it  starts  up  thought,  through  vibrations  that  strike 
our  eyes  and  ears  and  other  organs,  and  if  one 
is  going  to  think  at  all  with  reference  to  one's  rela- 
tions to  the  universe,  the  first  fact  to  realize  thor- 
oughly, it  seems  to  me,  is  that  through  all,  without 
us  and  within  us,  everything — the  motions  of  the 
stars  and  their  heat  and  light;  the  processes  of  our 
earth,  its  clouds  and  storms,  and  the  growth  of 
the  plants  they  feed;  the  growth  of  its  living  crea- 
tures and  all  they  do;  the  life  of  man,  his  senses 
knowing  the  universe,  his  intellect  understanding 
it,  his  feelings  toward  it  and  toward  his  fellows, 


The  All-including.  197 

his  loves  and  hates  and  aspirations — all  depend, 
so  far  as  we  know,  on  processes  in  various  forms 
of  the  same  boundless  force.  It  pervades  all,  sus- 
tains all,  inspires  all." 

"  It,  then,  is  God  !"  exclaimed  Nina. 

«  yes — God,  Pan,  Brahma,  Orm uzd,  Osiris:  wher- 
ever men  have  vaguely  guessed  regarding  it,  they 
have  given  it  a  name.  It  has  had  thousands." 

"  But,  Mr.  Muriel,  Brahma  and  Osiris  are  idols." 

"Oh  fudge!"  he  exclaimed.  "You've  been  in 
Rome,  I  believe?  Wish  I  had." 

"Yes,"  answered  Nina.  "But  you  mustn't  say 
'Fudge'  to  my  simple  ideas.  It's  not  polite — or 
kind." 

"All  right!  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  I'll  try  not 
to  do  it  again.  Well,  did  you  see  any  images 

of  'God'  in  Rome?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  where's  the  difference  ?  Call  them,  and 
images  of  Brahma  and  Osiris,  idols  or  not,  all  are 
efforts  to  express  to  sense,  the  all-pervading  power." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  Nina  admitted,  "  but  nobody  in 
Rome  worshipped  the  pictures  and  statues  of  God 
the  Father." 

"  Did  they  worship  images  of  any  other  divini- 
ties? Even  of  men  ?" 

"Yes,  they  did,"  said  Nina.  "But  somehow 
that  didn't  seem  idolatry." 

"  But  it  was,  all  the  same,"  Muriel  asserted,  and 
added:  "And  now,  I  tell  you,  Miss  Wahring,  any 
sort  of  anthropomorphism  is  idolatry." 

"What  does  that  awful  long  word  mean?" 

"  Why,  it's  simply  made  up  of  two  Greek  words" 


198  The  All-including. 

(which  the  young  gentleman  was  pleased  to  show 
his  scholarship  by  pronouncing  and  translating). 
"  It  means  the  effort  to  narrow  down  the  illimitable 
power  behind  the  universe,  to  the  form  of  a  man. 
To  my  mind  that's  a  step  toward  idolatry  whether  the 
idolatry  turns  up  in  Italy  or  India:  at  best  it's  only 
the  result  of  early  man's  incapacity  to  imagine  a 
force  not  proceeding  from  a  man  or  an  animal.  The 
early  man  wasn't  quite  ready  to  understand  gravi- 
tation changing  into  heat,  or  into  the  later  forces 
— winds  and  lightning  and  tides  and  vegetable 
growth  and  the  grace  of  womanhood  and  the  mind 
of  man;  and  so  at  first  he  referred  each  manifesta- 
tion of  the  All-including  Power  to  a  separate  god; 
and  to  get  a  better  grip  of  his  ideas,  made  images 
of  them — gods  of  fire,  of  light,  of  lightning,  of  wind, 
of  sound,  even  of  strength  and  beauty  and  intellect. 
But  as  men's  minds  grew  more  capable  of  general 
conceptions,  their  gods  became  more  general.  The 
Greeks,  who  had  more  gods  than  pretty  much  any- 
body else,  got,  in  Pan,  a  conception  almost  as  gen- 
eral, though  of  course  not  as  exalted  as  the  Hebrew 
Jehovah,  or  the  Indian  Brahma,  or  the  Egyptian 
Osiris  that  I  was  just  speaking  of." 

"  But,"  asked  Nina,  "  wasn't  Pan  merely  a  god  of 
inanimate  nature  ?  You  spoke  of  the  All-including 
Force  as  moving  our  minds  and  souls.  Jehovah 
was  much  nearer  that  than  Pan." 

"The  best  of  the  Greeks  too  got  higher  than 
Pan,"  Calmire  interrupted,  " — as  high  as  anybody 
in  those  days;  and  so  did  many  of  the  Romans." 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel,  "but  I  was  speaking  only 
of  the  general  conception.  And  as  to  the  power 


The  All-including.  T99 

that  moves  the  visible  universe,  moving  also  the 
soul  of  man,  the  East  Indians,  and  the  Egyptians 
too,  had  at  least  a  very  distinct  notion  of  the  man's 
soul  being  absorbed  in  the  universal  soul  after  death, 
but  they  didn't  comprehend  that  the  force  that 
impels  the  soul  in  life,  is  the  universal  force.  Yet 
there  were  frequent  guesses  in  that  direction,  all 
around,  as  there  have  been  toward  most  of  the 
recent  generalizations." 

"Well,  I  find  it  terribly  bewildering,"  said  the 
girl,  "  but  inexpressibly  grand." 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  "  it  is  grand — perhaps  it  is 
what  Uncle  Grand  would  admit  to  be  the  grandest 
thought  possible  to  us — to  feel  that  the  throbs  of 
those  farthest  stars  and  the  throbs  of  one's  own 
heart  are  impulses  from  one  all-including,  ineffable 
Power!" 

"That  is  grand, but  not  yet  the  grandest,"  said 
Calmire. 


When  the  ladies  said  good-night,  at  home,  Mu- 
riel grasped  Nina's  hand  with  something  more 
than  the  feeling  of  gallantry  which  had  moved  him 
early  in  the  evening. 

More  than  once  that  night,  she  was  conscious 
that  this  proud,  strong  Muriel  Calmire  was  yield- 
ing something  to  her,  but  she  felt  nothing  more 
responsive  than  a  little  feminine  triumph.  Of 
Courtenay,  she  hardly  thought  before  she  was 
quietly  in  bed.  Then  she  felt  a  disappointment  at 
not  having  heard  more  of  the  details  of  his  work. 
Next  she  realized  that  her  disappointment  was  due, 


200  The  All-including. 

in  a  large  degree,  to  Muriel's  interruptions,  and  she 
felt  a  little  indignant  at  Muriel.  Her  indignation 
increased  with  some  such  reflection  as:  "What 
right  has  that  great  lazy  creature  who  does  nothing 
but  blow  his  cornet  and  amuse  himself,  to  interfere 
with  this  noble  gentleman  whose  whole  life  is  full 
of  self-sacrifice  and  devotion  to  the  highest  things?" 
Then  came  a  lazy  consciousness  that  Muriel  had 
talked  with  great  interest  of  some  things  which 
seemed  to  her  very  high.  Then  came  a  realiza- 
tion that  when  Muriel  had  interfered  with  Cour- 
tenay,  he  had  sometimes  been  almost  brutal, 
and  then  a  recognition  that  he  had  generally 
been  correct,  and  that  Courtenay's  spirit  had  not 
been  any  too  liberal.  Then  she  grew  sleepy,  with 
a  dreamy  feeling  of  sympathy  with  Courtenay 
in  the  hands  of  Muriel,  who  was  so  big  and  un- 
sparing, but  who  was  withal  so  true.  Her  last 
consciousness  before  her  sweet  slumbers,  was  of 
these  two  preparing  for  some  game  of  strength 
and  skill,  and  behind  them  she  saw  Calmire,  who, 
she  was  impressed,  had  more  strength  and  skill  than 
either,  and  who  would  be  umpire  and  see  the  match 
rightly  played.  But  just  as  her  half-dream  faded 
into  complete  repose,  that  figure  itself  stooped 
to  take  up  some  of  the  implements  of  the  game. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

AT     A     TENNIS     MATCH. 

COURTENAY  was  not  the  only  person  who  had 
been  disappointed  in  the  results  of  the  meeting  be- 
tween him  and  Nina:  Nina  was  disappointed  too. 

Of  course  but  a  small  share  of  the  talk  she  par- 
ticipated in  or  listened  to,  is  reported  here:  the 
atmosphere  in  which  she  lived  was  permeated  with 
germs  of  thought  new  to  her.  Her  mother,  having 
the  indifference  of  a  woman  of  the  world  to  all 
such  subjects,  hardly  realized  what  was  going  on, 
and  if  she  had,  would  probably  have  thought  the 
considerations  in  favor  of  staying  at  Fleuvemont 
more  important  than  the  dangers  to  the  orthodoxy 
of  her  daughter.  The  poor  child  had,  however, 
begun  on  the  task  which  drove  Hugh  Miller  mad, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  feel  the  strain. 

Calmire  had  avoided  protracted  conversations 
on  the  subject,  knowing  that  they  would  tend 
farther  to  "unsettle"  her,  and  feeling,  though 
somewhat  vaguely,  that  it  would  be  against  the 
duties  of  hospitality  to  exercise  such  influences 
under  his  own  roof. 

For  a  variety  of  reasons,  she  did  not  for  some  time 
seek  farther  conferences  with  Muriel.  She  had  a 
doubt  whether  he  would  be  quite  fair.  This  doubt, 
so  far  as  she  cared  to  analyze  it,  was  not  that,  ab- 

201 


2O2  At  a  Tennis  MatcJi. 

stractly,  he  wanted  to  be  fair,  but  she  had  a  vague 
feeling  that  he  was  too  enthusiastic,  perhaps  too 
prejudiced,  to  be  able  to  be  so.  Under  the  doubt 
was,  too,  that  sweet  maidenly  shrinking  that  she 
did  not  feel  regarding  the  older  man. 

She  had  not  yet  formed  any  habit  of  serious  read- 
ing, and,  of  course,  still  less  had  she  any  idea  of 
how  to  "  hunt  up"  things  in  books.  Calmire  had 
reintroduced  her  into  the  library  a  few  days  after 
her  arrival,  saying:  "  There's  one  little  alcove,  that 
I  call  mine,  which  "contains  more  worth  knowing 
than  any  one  man  is  ever  going  to  know.  But  if 
you  merely  want  'elegant  letters,'  you  can  play 
over  half  the  place  with  them,  and  it's  a  very  good 
sort  of  amusement,  until  you  find  you're  in  earnest 
about  something." 

Despite  the  somewhat  Delphic  and,  possibly, 
somewhat  narrow-minded  character  of  these  utter- 
ances, Nina  had  come  to  find  herself  "  in  earnest 
about  something." 

In  the  mornings,  after  Calmire  had  started  on  his 
gallop  across  country  to  the  factories,  she  often 
fumbled  about,  principally  in  Calmire's  alcove,  but 
found  little  to  suit  her  case:  the  scientific  books 
confined  themselves  to  their  facts,  often  in  language 
that  she  could  not  understand,  and  the  non-scien- 
tific books  were  vague  and  frequently  contradictorv 
to  a  degree  that  but  added  to  her  perplexities 
Her  mind  was  full  of  pretty  distinct  questions,  but 
the  direct  answers  she  wanted,  were  seldom  in 
books;  and  those  that  were,  generally  could  be 
got  at  only  by  wading  through  much  extraneous 
matter. 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  203 

As  she  was  unable,  then,  for  various  reasons,  to 
quiet  her  mind  through  Calmire,  Muriel,  or  books, 
it  was  natural  that  her  thoughts  should  begin  to 
turn  toward  Courtenay.  He  was  the  most  acces- 
sible fountain  of  that  wisdom  which  she  had  long 
thought  inexhaustible,  and  so  it  was  a  pleasant 
surprise  to  find  him,  a  couple  of  days  later,  at  one 
of  the  neighbors',  where  the  local  tennis  club  hap- 
pened to  be  meeting. 

When  the  Fleuvemont  party  entered  the  grounds 
after  a  word  with  the  hostess  in  the  house,  a  goodly 
company  was  already  in  position  on  rows  of  camp- 
stools  on  both  sides  of  the  courts. 

"  Why,  there's  Julia  Winterton,"  said  Mrs. 
Wahring,  indicating  a  tall,  striking-looking  woman 
who  was  the  centre  of  quite  a  group.  "You 
know  her  daughter  is  just  engaged  to  the  Earl  of 
Bournemouth.  We  must  go  and  congratulate 
her," — and  in  two  minutes,  it  was: 

"  Oh  Julia,  I  was  so  glad  to  hear  it!  Blanche  is 
just  the  girl  for  it,  and  it  must  be  just  what  you 
want." 

"  Yes,  Hilda,  it  makes  me  a  very  happy  woman, 
and  I  think  Blanche's  happiness  is  certain." 

"  She's  a  sweet  enough  girl  to  deserve  any  amount 
of  it,"  said  Calmire.  "  Let  me  join  my  congratula- 
tions too.  But  it's  time  for  these  foreigners  to 
stop  robbing  us  of  our  prettiest  girls.  And  you 
mustn't  think  me  a  bear  when  I  say  that  I'm  very 
sorry  that  now  Blanche  can't  ever  be  the  wife  of  a 
president  of  the  United  States." 

"  Unless,"  broke  in  Muriel,  as  his  form  of  con- 
gratulation, "some  one  should  be  envious  enough 


204  At  a  Tennis  Match. 

to  kill  off  Bournemouth.  No  jury  with  eyes  in 
their  heads  would  convict  for  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Muriel.  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  isn't 
one  earl  in  the  hand  worth  two  presidents  in  the 
bush  ?" 

"  Depends  on  the  earl,"  said  Calmire. 

"Well,  ours  is  a  good  one,  and  it's  well  to  draw 
the  two  branches  of  the  English  race  closer,  you 
know;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  for  a  man  with  a 
daughter  married  to  a  prince,  your  talk  is  very 
democratic  this  afternoon.  I  hope  you  don't 
regret  the  match  ?"  It  is  barely  possible  that 
the  lady  was  a  little  nettled  at  Calmire's  qualified 
felicitations. 

"  Oh,  Edelstein's  a  good  fellow,  and  he  loves 
Molly.  I  understand  that  your  young  man  is  a 
good  fellow  too,  and  if  he  is,  he  can't  help  loving 
Blanche.  But  perhaps  I'm  justified  in  saying  in 
ihis  connection  that,  fond  as  I  am  of  Edelstein,  the 
plain  truth  is  that  he's  not  a  fifth  the  man  that 
either  of  my  Yankee  sons-in-law  is." 

"  Well,  for  argument's  sake,  I'll  admit,"  said  Mrs. 
Winterton,  "that  he's  not  a  fifth  the  man  that 
either  of  your  sons  is.  Where  are  they  now?" 

"In  India  the  last  I  heard.  That's  nearly  half 
around.  But  speaking  of  men,  here  comes  one." 

There  was  no  doubt  of  that,  for  it  was  Courtenay 
who  joined  the  group.  Blanche,  who  was  like  a 
younger  sister  to  him,  had  met  him  in  another 
part  of  the  grounds  and  already  told  him  of  her 
engagement,  and  said  that  he  was  to  perform  the 
marriage-service. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Winterton,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  it's 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  205 

going  to  be  too  grand  a  ceremony  for  a  poor  little 
country  parson  like  me  !" 

"  Not  if  it  were  in  Westminster  Abbey,  Mr. 
Courtenay.  You  would  do  it  honor  anywhere." 

The  good  man  blushed,  and  when  he  raised  his 
eyes,  they  met  Nina's  smiling  upon  him.  They 
braced  him,  as  they  always  did.  He  answered 
promptly: 

"  Honor  anything  where  Blanche  is  ?  '  Paint 
the  lily  and  gild  refined  gold '  ?  Lord  Bourne- 
mouth is  said  to  be  a  man  of  sense.  How  proud 
he  must  be  !" 

The  little  ripples  of  laughter  that  had  been  run- 
ning over  the  group  were  loudest  at  this,  and 
Courtenay  was  glad  to  retire  with  the  honors, 
beside  Nina,  who  had  already  given  place  to 
others  seeking  to  felicitate  the  "  successful "  ma- 
tron. 

Courtenay  was  not  in  knickerbockers  (as  the 
fashion  then  was),  and  Nina,  having  heard  of 
his  renown  as  a  player,  asked  him  why.  He  told 
her  that  Doctor  Rossman  had  advised  him  to 
keep  quiet  for  a  week  longer.  In  a  few  minutes, 
when  play  was  about  to  begin,  Nina  said:  "Of 
course  you  want  to  look  on;"  but  after  noticing 
that  she  was  not  dressed  for  playing,  he  said:  "I 
think  not.  I  have  agreed  to  umpire  the  finals,  and 
I  think  that  will  be  enough.  But  don't  you  want 
to  watch  the  play  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I'll  save  my  interest  for 
the  finals  too.  Those  people  seem  to  find  it  very 
pleasant  on  the  settees  by  the  edge  of  the  grove. 
It's  cool  and  shady  there.  Suppose  we  go  too." 


206  At  a  Tennis  Match. 

The  seats  were  scattered  at  judicious  intervals, 
at  the  shady  edge  of  the  wide  sunlit  lawn,  and  her 
opportunity  for  ghostly  counsel  was  secured. 

His  first  words  after  they  were  seated  were: 

"  It  seems  very  natural  to  be  here  with  you!" 

"  So  it  does  to  me,"  she  answered,  too  full  of  her 
own  purposes  to  dwell  on  the  significance  of  his 
remark,  "  for  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you." 

He  was  ready  to  assume  all  the  reasons  for  the 
fact  that  his  fervid  convictions  furnished;  but  he 
was  a  gentleman  as  well  as  an  enthusiast,  so  the 
exultant  throb  at  his  heart  found  no  bolder  expres- 
sion than  a  grateful: 

"  That  does  me  very  high  honor." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,"  she  resumed,  "some 
questions.  But  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin.' 

"  The  beginning  is  usually  a  good  place  to  begin 
at,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  though  it's  sometimes  hard 
to  find." 

"Well,  you've  helped  me  to  it,"  she  said,  "and  I 
will  begin  just  there.  Do  you  believe  the  world  was 
made  in  six  days?" 

The  turn  in  the  conversation  was  so  ludicrously 
different  from  what  his  thoughts  had  dwelt  upon, 
that  he  burst  out  laughing. 

"Why,  it  isn't  a  laughing  matter,  is  it,  Mr. 
Courtenay  ?"  she  said,  half  hurt  and  half  amused. 

"Of  course  not,"  he  answered.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  But  one  so  seldom  expects  such  a  ques- 
tion so  suddenly.  Now  my  answer  will  have  to  be 
that  it  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  six  days." 

"  Then,"  said  she,  "  please  let  me  ask  you  another 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  207 

question.  Do  you  believe  in  the  divine  authority 
of  the  Scriptures?" 

"Why  certainly.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because,  as  I've  been  thinking  over  these  mat- 
ters lately,  it  has  seemed  to  me,  that  if  God  meant 
to  say  six  days,  he  would  have  said  six  days,  and 
if  he  had  wanted  to  say  six  something  else,  he 
would  have  said  six  something  else." 

"Perhaps  he  wanted  to  leave  us  uncertain," 
Courtenay  answered.  "  You  know  that  the  world 
and  life  are  full  of  mysteries,  yet  they  are  God's  work. 
Why  shouldn't  God's  other  work,  the  Bible,  be 
also  full  of  mysteries?" 

"Yes,  I've  thought  of  that  too,"  said  the  girl; 
"but  as  far  as  I  can  read  Nature,  she  makes  no 
distinct  statements  that  are  not  distinctly  true." 

"  Oh  yes,  she  does,"  said  the  priest.  "  She  says 
that  the  Sun  rises  and  sets,  while  it  only  appears 
to,  and  it  is  the  earth  that  moves." 

The  girl's  face  fell  and  she  looked  puzzled. 
After  a  few  moments,  she  said: 

"  No.  Nature  does  not  say  that  the  Sun  rises 
and  sets:  we  say  so." 

"  And  isn't  it  we,"  he  answered,  "  who  say  that 
the  Bible  says  that  the  world  was  made  in  six 
days  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "  that  the  Bible  only 
appears  to  us  to  say  so  ?" 

"  Why,  what  more  can  it  do  ?"  said  he. 

She  was  puzzled  again,  but  after  a  little  asked: 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we  cannot  be  more 
certain  what  words  are  in  the  Bible,  than  what 
motions  are  made  by  the  heavenly  bodies  ?  Why, 


208  At  a  Tennis  Match. 

any  child  can  read  the  Bible,  just  the  same  as  the 
wisest  man  reads  it,  but  no  child  can  read  the 
motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies." 

"  But  any  child  can  see  the  Sun  rise,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but  all  wise  people  agree  that 
the  Bible  reads  as  it  appears  to,  and  that  the  Sun 
does  not  rise  as  it  appears  to." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  suppose  there  are  differing 
degrees  of  certainty." 

"  You  admit  then  that  we  have  much  more  rea- 
son to  believe  that  the  words  in  Scripture  are  what 
they  appear  to  be,  than  that  the  motions  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  are  what  they  appear  to  be  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first  ?"  she  asked 
in  a  manner  far  less  abrupt  than  the  words. 

"  Because,"  he  answered  very  promptly  and 
quietly,  "  I  suppose  that  in  trying  to  defend  the 
Scriptures,  I  took  a  mistaken  argument.  It  was  a 
bad  effort  in  a  good  cause,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"  But  it  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Courtenay,  that  God 
would  at  least  have  been  able  to  make  his  meaning 
so  plain  that  one  need  not  be  in  danger  of  making 
mistakes  with  reference  to  it." 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "as  I  said,  perhaps  he 
didn't  want  to." 

"Then  why  did  he  profess  to?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  we're  warranted  in  assuming 
that  he  professed  to.  Why  might  \ve  not  as  justly 
say  that  he  professes  that  the  Sun  rises  and  sets?" 

She  was  puzzled  again,  but  after  a  while  said: 

"  But  the  Scriptures  are  everywhere  accepted  as 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  209 

having  been  expressly  sent  for  our  guidance.  It 
seems  to  me  much  more  reasonable  that  they 
should  be  exactly  what  they  appear  to  be,  than 
that  anything  else  we  know  of  should." 

"  Yes,  that  may  be,  but  we  must  not  be  too  self- 
sufficient  in  judging  them.  It  won't  do,  you  know, 
to  judge  divine  things  by  human  methods.  All 
Christianity  is  a  miracle,  and  so  we  must  expect  to 
find  in  it  things  out  of  the  reach  of  our  reason." 

"Then  how  can  we  judge  that  it's  a  miracle?" 
asked  Nina. 

"Oh  that's  very  plain.  Why,  just  consider  that 
the  whole  civilized  world  had  been  prepared  for 
it  by  the  spread  of  the  Roman  empire :  there 
was  at  last  a  universal  language  provided  to  con- 
vey it;  then  Rome's  conquests  had  provided 
nations  of  oppressed  and  suffering  people  ready 
to  welcome  the  new  light.  At  the  same  time,  the 
hold  of  the  rich  and  powerful  on  their  old  faith  had 
been  weakened;  they  had  begun  to  see  the  absurd- 
ity of  the  polytheism  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and 
their  minds  were  becoming  clean  pages  ready  to 
receive  the  new  impressions.  And  then,  when  all 
these  wonderful  provisions  had  been  made  for  His 
coming,  appeared  our  Lord  with  his  wonderful 
new  teachings  of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  and  of 
God  as  a  single  loving  father  over  all;  contrast  his 
doctrine  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  with  the  pre- 
vailing notions  of  conquering  captor  and  conquered 
slave;  and  his  God  with  the  selfish,  cruel,  and 
wicked  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Have  you 
never  thought  how  miraculous  all  that  was  ?" 
"Only  in  disjointed  ways;  I  never  thought  of 


2IO  At  a  Tennis  Match. 

it  all  together  before.  It  certainly  is  very  wonder- 
ful. But,  Mr.  Courtenay,  admitting  the  Bible  to 
have  been  miraculously  sent,  if  we  can't  depend  on 
the  impressions  we  get  from  it,  what  are  they  good 
for  ?" 

"Ask  the  civilization  of  the  last  two  thousand 
years." 

"Are  you  sure  we  owe  all  that  civilization  to 
Christianity?  I've  heard  a  good  deal  of  it  attrib- 
uted to  steam  and  electricity  and  the  compass  and 
even  gunpowder." 

"But  don't  you  see,"  he  answered,  "that  all 
these  blessings  have  come  up  under  the  Christian 
civilization,  and  certainly  you  would  not  deny  the 
Christian  civilization  to  the  Christian  religion  ? 
That  would  be  a  contradiction  in  terms.  It  is  to 
just  such  confusions  as  that  that  one  always  comes 
in  trying  to  question  it.  The  only  way  is  not  to 
question  it — to  accept  it  as  the  great  including 
tact  of  the  world,  and  if  the  minor  facts  seem  to 
our  limited  intelligence  at  variance  with  it,  to 
assume  that  they  only  seem  so,  until  farther  knowl- 
edge reconciles  them." 

She  did  not  reflect — perhaps  did  not  know — that 
Christian  Europe  had  had  no  monopoly  in  the 
discovery  of  some  of  the  agents  of  civilization 
which  she  had  named,  and  she  did  not  realize  that 
he  had  made  his  own  "contradiction  in  terms"  by 
applying  his  own  terms:  neither  did  he.  Yet  the 
reasoning  seemed,  somehow,  hazy  to  her,  though 
she  seized  on  another  point  in  his  remarks: 

"You  believe,  then,  in  sacrificing  your  intellect 
wherever  it  raises  any  questions  in  your  religion  ?" 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  211 

"  I  should  not  have  put  it  quite  in  that  way,"  he 
answered.  "  But  since  you  do,  what  is  my  intellect 
that  I  should  not  sacrifice  it  for  my  faith — for  my 
people?  My  Master  sacrificed  his  life." 

"  But  what  are  our  intellects  for,  Mr.  Courtenay, 
if  not  to  seek  the  truth?" 

"When  we  have  found  the  highest  truth,"  he 
answered,  "  the  intellect  has  done  its  best.  It  can 
afford  to  resist  all  temptations  to  fly  beyond.  Such 
temptations  must  be  delusion." 

She  saw  no  answer  to  this,  and  returned  to 
another  aspect  of  what  he  had  been  saying. 
Though  she  objected  to  his  position,  she  felt  the 
nobleness  in  his  spirit,  and  yet  she  felt  remonstrant. 
"  You  spoke  of  readiness  for  sacrifice.  May 
I  ask — it  is  not  going  too  far,  I  hope,"  she  said, 
blushing — "  if  you  have  never  really  felt  the  aban- 
donment of  some  of  these  questions  to  be  a  sacri- 
fice ?" 

"Well,  at  times  I  have  had  to  resist  a  spirit  of 
inquiry,  though  I  doubt  if  it  is  as  strong  in  me  as 
in  some  men,  and  I'm  grateful  that  it  is  not.  But 
I  try  to  make  my  religion  one  of  work.  There's 
enough  to  do  without  inquiring,  and  the  struggle 
against  inquiry  has  always  been  easy  when  I  have 
realized  that  I  must  keep  my  own  faith  clear  and 
strong  for  my  poor." 

Probably  the  greatest   reward  he  had   ever  re- 
ceived for  his  pure  efforts,  was  the  admiring  smile 
with  which  she  looked  up  at  him.     She  said  : 
"You  are  very  noble,  Mr.  Courtenay." 
"Oh  no!"  he  remonstrated,  "there  can  be  noth- 
ing noble  in  mistrusting  the  intellect  in  such  mat- 


212  At  a  Tennis  Match. 

ters.  What  has  it  ever  done?  Only  built  system 
after  system  to  see  them  disappear.  The  intelli- 
gence of  the  world  has  followed  and  forsaken  a 
dozen  systems  in  the  time  that  our  Religion  has 
steadily  and  majestically  pursued  its  way." 

They  were  interrupted  here  by  friends  coming 
up,  and  the  conversation  could  not  be  resumed 
before  Courtenay  had  to  go  and  umpire  the  games. 
Then  Nina,  instead  of  going  to  look  on,  slipped  off 
by  herself  into  the  grove,  and  thought  it  all  over. 

Her  first  strong  feeling  was:  "  Here  is  a  noble, 
useful  life — I  never  knew  one  more  admirable — 
entirely  free  from  the  speculations  which  fill  the 
brain  of  that  useless  Muriel  Calmire....And,  too, 
it  is  a  peaceful  life,  for  it  is  not  troubled  by 
the  questions  that  have  been  disturbing  this  use- 
less Nina  Wahring....What  is  this  presumptuous 
mind  of  mine  that  I  should  let  its  little  curiosities 
disturb  me?  Why  not  quiet  it  as  he  does  his,  in 
the  greater  truth  ?....'  If  his  Master  sacrificed  his 
life,  why  should  not  he  sacrifice  his  intellect?' 
— True,  generous  soul !....!  wonder  if  it  ever  oc- 
curred to  that  Muriel  Calmireto  sacrifice  anything 
—for  anything — for  anybody  !....Well,  the  wise 
course  is  open  to  me,  and  what  a  noble  course  it 
is  !  I  will  simply  stop  troubling  myself  any  more 
about  the  whole  thing.. ..Why,  there's  the  moon, 
and  up  beyond,  a  star  visible  in  daylight.  I 
never  saw  but  one  before.  How  it  throbs !.... 
'  To  feel  that  the  throbs  of  that  far-off  star  and  the 
throbs  of  one's  own  heart  come  from  the  same  in- 
effable Power.'  "  The  words  had  often  gone 
through  her  mind.  Now  she  added  with  a  feeling 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  213 

of  impatient  triumph:  "And  yes,  Mr.  Muriel  Cal- 
mire, that  power  is  God!"  Then  the  triumph 
melted  into  sympathy  as  she  mused:  "'God, 
Brahma,  Osiris' — what  was  it  he  said?  Well,  I 
won't  bother  over  it  any  more.  Even  he  admits 
that  it  is  surely  God."  She  felt  contented  and  at 
rest,  and  turned  back  toward  the  tennis-courts. 

As  they  drove  home  after  dinner,  she  sat  next 
Calmire.  Both  were  in  a  mood  for  silence,  and 
she  soon  lost  herself  in  the  beauty  and  mystery  of 
the  night.  But  the  feeling  of  its  beauty  was 
habitual,  and  now  there  grew  up  for  the  first  time, 
the  deeper  feeling  of  its  order.  With  that,  came  a 
sense  of  reverence  such  as  she  had  never  before 
experienced.  After  some  minutes  of  deep  absorp- 
tion, she  realized  that  all  her  previous  emotions 
toward  Nature  had  had  in  them  something  akin 
to  the  enthusiasm  we  feel  for  human  superiority. 
When  they  had  been  very  intense,  there  was  some- 
thing in  them  not  entirely  unlike  the  passion  of 
human  love,  as  her  pure  nature  had  imagined  it; 
with  this,  her  mind  came  to  the  conception  of  the 
Creator — the  bearded  man  she  had  seen  in  pic- 
tures; and  the  contrast  of  this  image  with  the  im- 
mensity that  had  just  filled  her  soul,  gave  her  a 
start  of  something  strangely  like  disgust. 

This  set  her  to  thinking  of  her  talk  with  Courte- 
nay,  and  after  a  while  she  turned  and  said  to  Cal- 
mire: 

"  Mr.  Calmire,  Mr.  Courtenay  says  that  perhaps 
the  Bible  doesn't  mean  what  it  says,  and  yet  that 


214  At  a  Tennis  Match. 

all  Christian  civilization  is  built  upon  it.  Now  I 
can't  quite  make  that  out,  can  you  ?" 

"  No.  I  suppose  he  would  call  it  one  of  the 
mysteries  of  religion.  I  believe  that's  their  name 
for  all  contradictions  in  what  they  say  they  believe." 

"  Say  they  believe  !"  exclaimed  Nina;  "  why, 
don't  you  think  Mr.  Courtenay  does  believe  what 
he  says  ?" 

"  I've  no  doubt  he  thinks  he  does,  but '  believing  ' 
means  different  things  to  him  and  to  me." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Well,"  answered  Calmire,  "  to  him  it  means 
something  superior  to  reason,  to  me  it  means 
something  subordinate  to  reason." 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  where's  the  virtue  in  Faith 
if  we're  going  to  let  it  be  upset  all  the  time?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  think  it  a  virtue  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  for  all  persons,  in  the  sense  you  mean  it." 

"  Not  for  me  ?" 

Nina  was  not  given  to  self-reference.  Her  fall- 
ing into  it  now,  showed  that  something  very  unusual 
was  going  on  in  her  mind.  Calmire  answered: 

"  I  don't  know  yet." 

"  Not  for  Mr.  Courtenay  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  good  for  him." 

"  Then  wrhat  kind  of  people  is  it  good  for,  and 
what  kind  of  people  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Ah,  young  lady,"  he  answered  with  a  little 
laugh,  "I  shall  not  tell  you  that  unless  I  find  out 
that  it  is  not  good  for  you.  But  if  I  ever  find  that 
out,  you  will  know  the  answer  for  yourself,  so  I 
shall  never  need  to  tell  you  at  all." 


At  a  Tennis  Match.  ~ 1 5 

And  thenceforward  at  odd  moments  for  many 
days,  the  cup  of  her  perplexity  was  full.  Mr.  Cal- 
mire,  whom,  in  a  timid  half-unconscious  way,  she 
trusted  profoundly,  said  that  it  was  well  for  Cour- 
tenay  to  believe  as  he  did,  yet  Calmire  did  not 
himself  believe  as  Courtenay  did,  and  doubted 
whether  it  was  best  for  her  that  she  should.  She 
wished  that  she  had  asked  him  whether  he  thought 
it  best  for  Muriel. 

And  as  she  thought  more  about  it,  she  became 
perplexed  as  to  how  Courtenay  did  believe.  De- 
spite her  admiration  for  the  self-denial  in  his  con- 
clusions, she  could  not  make  his  views  consistent 
with  each  other,  and  she  was  astounded  once  to 
find  herself  saying  to  herself:  "  Is  it  right  to  be 
content  with  inconsistent  views — is  it  honest  ?" 

But  some  time  later,  she  was  brought  to  realize 
that,in  some  regions,  the  only  way  to  avoid  incon- 
sistent views,  is  to  have  no  views  at  all. 

When  they  got  home,  after  the  ladies  had  retired, 
and  the  men  had  settled  down  for  an  extra  cigar, 
Muriel  said  to  Calmire: 

"  What  were  you  and  Miss  Wahring  talking 
about  as  we  neared  home  ?" 

"  About  Dogma's  last  ditch." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"  About  Dogma  exalting  credulity  into  a  virtue. 
Science  declares  it  a  vice." 

"What  did  Miss  Wahring  say  to  that?" 

"What  did  she  say  to  that?  Do  you  suppose  I 
told  it  to  her  ?  You  young  people  never  will  realize 
that  it's  absurd  to  tell  people  things  they  can't 
understand." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

MURIEL    TAKES    A    SHORT    INNINGS. 

NINA  awoke  late  the  next  morning,  but  feel- 
ing very  bright,  partly  because,  despite  her  ques- 
tions to  Calmire,  she  had  been  set  relatively  at 
peace  by  Courtenay,  through  the  regular  pro- 
fessional demonstration  of  the  miraculous  foun- 
dation of  Christianity.  While  taking  a  light  break- 
fast in  her  room,  she  pondered  this,  and  then  ran 
downstairs  and  out  on  to  the  lawn,  like  a  child  with 
some  new-found  wonder  in  its  apron,  to  show  it  to 
Muriel  and  convince  him. 

This  tempestuous  Muriel  Calmire  was  a  factor  in 
Mrs.  Wahring's  Summer  experiences  that  she  had 
not  counted  on.  But  he  caused  her  no  anxiety  re- 
garding her  great  scheme,  for  she  expected  his 
loud  irreverence  to  make  him  distasteful  to  Nina; 
and,  so  far,  in  some  respects,  she  had  no  occasion 
to  be  disappointed.  Yet  Nina,  while  she  had 
found  his  aggressive  infidelity  repulsive,  had  not 
found  it  altogether  uninteresting,  especially  as  she 
had  realized  that  its  aggressiveness  was  earnest- 
ness of  conviction,  and  that  its  justification  was 
not  altogether  denied  by  Calmire,  who  was  him- 
self so  temperate  and  so  patient.  But  unques- 
tionably she  would  have  been  much  more  moved 
by  Calmire's  admissions,  if  the  crassness  of  Mu- 
riel's assertions  had  not  prejudiced  her  against 

316 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  2 1  / 

his  side.  How  much  of  a  young  man's  enthusiasm 
against  restraining  doctrine,  may  be  due  to  im- 
patience of  restraint,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  to 
inquire. 

Muriel,  of  course,  was  a  propagandist — when  it 
was  no  trouble  to  be  one.  Such  boys,  no  less  than 
the  best  men  in  the  church,  always  want  people  to 
think  as  they  do.  Probably  Muriel  would  not 
have  sought  jungles,  deserts,  and  lonely  death 
for  the  sake  of  spreading  his  faith,  or  lack  of  it; 
but  preaching  to  Nina  Wahring  at  Fleuvemont 
was  a  different  matter.  So  despite  his  uncle's  cau- 
tions against  disturbing  Nina's  faith,  he  was  at 
least  always  ready  to  take  up  the  cudgels  at  her 
invitation. 

When  she  found  him,  she  gave  him  briefly  the 
points  she  had  learned  the  day  before,  and  ended 
triumphantly  with  "  So  Christianity  is  miraculous 
after  all !" 

"Yes?"  asked  Muriel,  with  a  provoking  drawl, 
and  then  flashed  out:  "Confound  their  impu- 
dence !  To  make  out  Christianity  the  only  re- 
ligion, they're  always  making  out  Rome's  the  only 
civilization,  when  off  there  were  India  and  China 
and  Japan  with  art  and  culture  that  in  many  re- 
spects could  knock  Rome  endways.  But  even  that 
'  universal  language'  argument  doesn't  amount  to 
anything.  The  gospels  were  not  even  written  in 
it;  and  assume  the  empire  of  Rome  to  have  been 
prepared  miraculously,  then  I  suppose  the  empires 
of  Charles  the  Great  and  Napoleon  were  too?" 

"  I  never  heard  anybody  say  so,"  answered  Nina. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  Muriel. 


218  Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings. 

"  Then  what  makes  you  talk  that  way?"  she  asked. 

"Because  the  world  was  certainly  in  as  favorable 
a  state  for  each  of  those  men,  as  for  Christ.  Don't 
you  see  that?" 

"Oh,  what  does  a  girl  have  a  chance  to  see?" 
Then  she  added  in  a  contrasting  tone  that  made 
Muriel  think  of  the  middle  register  of  a  clarionet: 
"Tell  me  what_jw/  see." 

He  briefly  explained  the  situations,  when  she 
said: 

"  But  God  may  have  shaped  the  world  for  Chris- 
tianity through  natural  causes,  as  he  did  for  Charles 
and  Napoleon;  and  then  there  were  Christ's  miracu- 
lous new  and  divine  doctrines." 

"'Natural  causes'  are  not  miracles:  so  over  goes 
that  claim.  Now  what  doctrines  do  you  call  miracu- 
lous and  new  ?" 

"  Why  one  God — a  father,  and  all  men  brothers." 

"Now  just  look  at  that!"  cried  the  boy;  "will 
you  just  look  at  that?  I  declare  it  ought  to  be  a 
criminal  offence  for  a  parson  to  get  hold  of  an  in- 
nocent girl  and  stuff  her  with  that  sort  of  humbug. 
Asia  had  those  doctrines  long  before  Christ  was 
born;  and  even  the  claim  that  Christianity  intro- 
duced them  to  the  Western  world,  is  all  nonsense. 
Certainly  the  best  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  had 
them  before  Christ,  and  about  his  time  their  old 
mythology  was  already  played  out,  as  Courtenay 
says:  Cicero  and  Seneca,  for  instance,  were  as  much 
infidels  regarding  it,  as  anybody  now  is  regarding 
Christianity.  But  is  there  anything  remarkable 
about  that?  Don't  all  religions  play  out?" 

Disregarding  his  question,  she  persisted: 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  219 

"  But,  Mr.  Muriel,  I  always  supposed  that  Chris- 
tianity was  the  first  religion  to  teach  charity  and 
the  sacrifice  of  self  to  others." 

Muriel  gave  something  like  a  low  whistle,  then 
begged  her  pardon  (a  proceeding  rather  new  in 
him),  and  said,  "  Come  on  to  the  piazza,  please,  and 
excuse  me  a  minute."  Then  he  went  off  into  the 
library,  came  back  with  some  books,  and  said: 

"  Now,  listen  to  this,"  and  he  read,  in  tones  that, 
despite  the  feeling  of  opposition  that  he  had 
aroused,  seemed  to  her  like  deep  music  : 

"  '  Charity  is  found  where  man,  seeking  to  diffuse  hap- 
piness among  all  men — those  he  loves  and  those  he  loves 
not— digs  canals  and  pools,  makes  roads,  bridges  and 
seats,  and  plants  trees  for  shade.  It  is  found  where, 
from  compassion  for  the  miserable  and  poor,  who  have 
none  to  help  them,  a  man  erects  resting-places  for  wan- 
derers, and  drinking-fountains,  or  provides  food,  raiment, 
medicine  for  the  needy,  not  selecting  one  more  than  an- 
other. This  is  true  charity,  and  bears  much  fruit.' 

"  That,"  said  Muriel,  "  is  from  the  Katha  Chari, 
a  Buddhist  collection  of  the  third  century  before 
Christ."  He  went  on,  selecting  passages: 

"I  find  here  that  Manu,  about  twelve  centuries 
before  Christ,  among  his  ten  duties  named  '  return- 
ing good  for  evil,'  and  said:  '  Shun  even  lawful 
acts  which  may  cause  future  pain  or  be  offensive  to 
mankind.'  He  also  said:  '  He  who  seeks  the  good 
of  all  sentient  beings,  enjoys  bliss  without  end.' 

"The  Khuddaka  Patha,  of  the  third  century  be- 
fore Christ,  says: 

" '  Let  the  love  that  fills  the  mother's  heart  as  she 
watches  over  an  only  child,  even  such  love,  animate  all. 

"  '  Let  the  good  will  that  is  boundless,  immeasurable, 
impartial,  unmixed  with  enmity,  prevail  throughout  the 
world.' 


22O  Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings. 

"  Confucius,  in  the  sixth  century  before  Christ, 
said  : 

"  'The  abject  man  sows  that  himself  or  his  friends  may 
reap:  the  love  of  the  perfect  man  is  universal.' 

"I  won't  read,"  he  continued,  "a  lot  of  things 
from  the  Hitopadesa,  because  this  editor  says  that 
although  most  of  its  material  is  known  to  have  ex- 
isted in  the  third  century  before  Christ,  it  was  not 
put  in  shape  until  about  the  sixth  century  of  our 
era,  and  therefore  possibly  may  have  felt  the  benefit 
of  Christianity.  I  haven't  any  idea  that  it  did, 
though.  I  also  refrain  from  quoting  the  Talmud 
and  the  Old  Testament,  because  they  are  claimed 
as  part  of  the  Christian  system,  though  they  con- 
tradict it  in  perhaps  as  many  things  as  they  antici- 
pate it  in.  But  I  want  to  give  you  a  little  of  what 
Greece  and  Rome  have  to  say  on  the  subject.  It 
would  have  been  a  greater  miracle  than  any  yet 
recorded,  if  they  had  reached  their  civilizations 
without  some  of  those  ideas."  He  hunted  in 
another  book,  and  said: 

"  Take  this  from  Isokrates,  four  or  five  centuries 
before  Christ: 

"  '  That  which  it  angers  you  to  suffer  from  others,  that 
do  not  to  others  yourselves.' 

"That's  merely  negative,"  Muriel  continued; 
"  but  how  about  this  ?  That  same  Isokrates,  I  find 
here,  advised  Nikokles,  King  of  Crete,  to  behave 
to  states  weaker  than  his  own,  as  he  would  have 
states  stronger  than  his  own,  behave  to  his." 

"Why,  that's  the  golden  rule  !"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  Seems  so!"  said  Muriel,  and  went  on: 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  221 

"  Seneca  says  the  same  thing: 

"  '  So  live  with  your  inferior  as  you  would  have  your 
superior  live  with  you.' 

"Elsewhere  he  said: 

"  '  It  is  required  of  a  man  to  be  of  benefit  to  men — to 
many  if  he  can;  failing  that,  to  a  few;  failing  that,  to 
those  nearest  him  ;  failing  that,  to  himself.' 

"  It  strikes1  me  that  that's  even  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  golden  rule,  for  it  puts  others  before  oneself. 
But  here's  some  more  from  Seneca: 

"  'The  brave  and  just  man  when  he  places  before  him- 
self as  the  rewards  of  death,  the  liberty  of  his  country, 
the  safety  of  all,  for  which  he  sacrifices  his  life,  is  in  the 
highest  state  of  happiness.' 

u  And  there,"  continued  Muriel,  "  you  get  not 
only  more  steps  beyond  the  golden  rule,  but  you 
get  patriotism  too — something  which  Christianity 
doesn't  go  into." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me,"  Nina  "remonstrated, 
"  that  I've  heard  Seneca  spoken  of  as  a  Christian 
moralist." 

"  Oh  Lord,  yes  !  The  Christians  tried  to  steal 
him,  and  even  forged  a  lot  of  letters  between  him  and 
Saint  Paul,  just  as  they  later  forged  the  dotation 
of  Constantine.  But  that's  all  rot  !  His  morals 
were  Christian,  or  Christian  morals  were  his.  All 
Aryan  and  Jewish  civilization  had  pretty  much  the 
same  morals — improving  of  course  as  time  went 
on:  Christianity  is  but  one  name  for  the  world's 
stock  of  morality,  as  Buddhism  is  another." 

"  But,  Mr.  Muriel  !  Mr.  Muriel  !  How  can  you 
talk  so!  It  wasn't  Roman  morality.  Didn't  Chris- 


222  Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings. 

tianity  have  to  come  in  to  put  an  end  to  the  Romans' 
cruel  shows  in  the  Arena?" 

"  So  they  say  !  But  nevertheless,  many  '  pagan ' 
moralists  resisted  them,  some  'pagan'  emperors 
prohibited  them,  and  many  Christians  were  very 
fond  of  them.  Hold  on  !  I'll  hunt  up  the  evi- 
dence here  if  you  want  it." 

"  No  !  If  you've  seen  it,  I'll  take  your  word. 
What  you  have  given  me  is  enough, "and  she  gave 
a  little  sigh  that  was  half  relief  from  her  strained 
attention,  and  half  regret  at  its  results.  "But," 
she  added,  "  why,  in  the  face  of  such  things,  have 
my  teachers  always  told  me  that  Christ  was  the 
first  to  bring  the  message  of  '  Peace  on  earth,  good 
will  toward  men'  ?" 

"Because  they've  been  crazy  with  enthusiasm. 
They  see  nothing  and  seek  nothing  but  what  makes 
for  their  case.  They  won't  tell  you  what  makes 
against  it.  They  justify  the  means  by  the  end, 
too,  whether  they  mean  to  or  not.  The  Jesuits  are 
not  alone  in  that.  Within  a  few  weeks,  a  learned 
man  told  me  that  Christianity  is  the  only  religion 
which  states  the  golden  rule  positively;  that  no 
other  religion  did  more  than  Confucius  in  saying, 
'  Refrain  from  doing  to  others  that  which  you 
would  not  that  they  should  do  to  you.'  I  don't 
see,  though,  that  the  difference  between  a  positive 
and  a  negative  statement  of  it,  even  if  that  differ- 
ence existed,  would  be  of  much  consequence." 

"Why,"  said  Nina,  "it  seems  to  me  that  the 
golden  rule  is  clear  and  positive  in  several  of  the 
passages  you  have  read.  But,"  she  continued  after 
a  moment,  "despite  all  you've  said,  there  are  the 
miracles  that  Christ  himself  performed." 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  223 

"  Great  Scott!  Why,  I  sometimes  think  that  if 
there  were  no  miracles  in  that  religion,  a  fellow 
might  believe  in  it." 

"  A  great  many  fellows  do  manage  to  believe  in 
it  with  its  miracles,"  she  rejoined.  "  Why  do  the 
miracles  convince  you  against  it,  instead  of  for  it  ?" 

"  Why,  simply,"  he  said,  "  because  they  reduce 
it  to  the  grade  of  all  other  religions.  Its  morality, 
much  as  I  had  to  say  against  it  the  other  night,  is 
ahead  of  the  rest  of  them,  unless  perhaps  Buddhism, 
but  the  religion  has  the  same  ear-marks  that  the 
others  have.  If  it  had  only  left  the  miracles  out, 
I'd  have  thought  it  something  distinct." 

"  But  aren't  its  miracles  different  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Why,  bless  you,"  said  the  boy,  "  pretty  much 
all  the  religions  have  incarnations,  miraculous 
births,  and  all  that,  not  to  speak  of  miraculous 
cures  and  feeds  and  all  sorts  of  prestidigitation. 
And  as  to  observances,  lots  of  them  use  the  sign 
of  the  cross  and  even  most  of  the  sacraments. 
Rome  and  the  East  had  infant  baptism,  and  at  the 
Samothracian  mysteries,  a  priest  heard  criminals 
confess  and  granted  them  absolution.  And  as 
to  originality  of  dogma,  Lactantius,  a  Christian, 
demonstrated  immortality  itself  from  Plato's  argu- 
ments, without  referring  to  Christ  in  his  demon- 
stration; and  Arnobius,  another  Christian,  speaks 
of  it  as  a  widespread  belief,  in  the  Church  and  out, 
which  he  himself  opposed  because  it  would  logic- 
ally make  men  reckless  in  this  life." 

"  But,"  persisted  Nina,  "  wasn't  practical  charity 
introduced  by  Christianity?  I've  been  told  over 
and  over  again  that  the  ancient  philosophers  talked 


224  Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings. 

very  prettily,  but  that  they  didn't  lead  anybody 
to  do  anything." 

"  Now  just  look  at  that  again  !"  exclaimed  Muriel. 
"  It's  flat  lying." 

"  No,"  remonstrated  Nina.  "  It  certainly  has 
been  told  me  by  people  who  don't  lie.  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Muriel  conceded.  "They 
merely  repeated  the  lies  that  dogmatic  literature 
is  full  of.  Why,  the  truth  is  that  in  the  best  days 
of  Athens,  nobody  was  permitted  to  want;  and  that 
in  Rome,  provisions,  and  even  clothes,  were  distrib- 
uted by  the  state,  free  schools  founded  for  poor  chil- 
dren, medical  officers  provided  for  the  needy  sick, 
and  people  giving  feasts  were  required  by  law  to 
do  something  for  the  poor.  And  not  only  that, 
but  so  far  from  its  being  true,  as  I  long  supposed, 
that  gifts  from  outside  to  cities  and  countries  in 
distress,  were  known  only  under  our  present  Chris- 
tianity, the  fact  is  that  classic  civilization  had 
many  such  instances.  Hold  on,  my  author  says 
something  about  that  business,"  and  he  hunted 
in  his  last  book  again  and  read: 

"  '  There  is  indeed  no  fact  m'ore  patent  in  history  than 
that  with  the  triumph  of  Christianity  under  Constantine, 
the  older  and  finer  spirit  of  charity  died  out  of  the  world, 
and  gave  place  to  an  intolerance  and  bigotry  which  were 
its  extreme  antithesis,  and  which  still  unhappily  rule  in 
its  stead.'  " 

"  But,"  said  Nina,  "'the  finer  spirit  of  charity' 
has  certainly  been  revived.  And  there  is  the  idea 
of  one  God:  Greece  and  Rome  didn't  have  that." 

"  Well,  suppose  they  didn't.  Nobody  claims  any 
more  than  that  Christianity  brought  it  from  the 
East.  But  the  fact  is  that  the  best  minds  of  Greece 
and  Rome  did  have  it  before.  They  regarded  the 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  225 

various  divinities,  with  their  various  names,  as 
merely  symbols  for  the  various  aspects  of  the  one 
Power.  Valeus  Loranus,  who  flourished  in  the 
century  before  Christ,  wrote  of  Jupiter,  '  Deum 
Deus,  unus  et  omnes' — God  of  gods,  one  and  all.'1 
And  Muriel  dived  into  his  book  again.  "  Here's 
Seneca  says  : 

"  '  Call  Him  Nature,  Fate,  Chance — all  are  names  for  the 
same  God  in  the  various  manifestations  of  his  power.' 

"  All  the  early  critics  of  Christianity,  and  many 
of  the  fathers  themselves,  claimed  that  there  was 
nothing  new  in  its  distinctive  doctrines." 

"  What  made  them  spread  so,  then  ?"  objected 
Nina. 

"The  same  influence,  I  suppose,"  answered 
Muriel,  "  which  made  the  same  doctrines  spread 
over  the  civilized  world  before  Christianity  was 
thought  of.  Christ  was  a  great  man,  though,  and 
gave  them  a  great  impulse,  but  so  did  Buddha 
and  Socrates  and  Cicero  and  Seneca  and  Marcus 
Aurelius,  and  hosts  of  others  who  were  not  Chris- 
tians at  all.  The  fact  is  that  all  over  Mediter- 
ranean Europe  and  the  Southwestern  half  of  Asia 
(leaving  out  some  of  the  vagaries  of  our  friends 
the  Mussulmans)  there  was  a  general  consensus  of 
moral  doctrine  among  the  wise  and  good,  which 
India  had  as  Brahminism  and  Buddhism,  Persia 
as  Zoroastrianism,  Syria  as  Jehovahism,  Egypt 
in  its  esoteric  doctrines,  and  Greece  and  Rome  in 
their  philosophies;  and  this  morality  reaches  us 
under  the  name  of  Christianity.  It  seems,  too,  as 
if  modern  Christian  apologists  had  kept  the  share 
of  other  religions  in  that  body  of  doctrine  pretty 
well  out  of  sight,  though  I  see  here  that  Clement, 


236  Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings. 

for  instance,  though  he  was  a  father  of  the 
Church,  said  that  Greek  philosophy  was  inspired 
of  God,  as  truly  as  Christianity  was;  and  Justin 
Martyr,  another  father,  counted  many  of  the 
philosophers  as  among  the  elect  of  God.  That 
degree  of  tolerance  hasn't  been  the  fashion  in 
Christianity,  though.  No  !  Christian  writers  have 
made  too  light  of  the  religious  thought  of  non- 
Christian  civilizations.  That  is  not  a  matter  of 
opinion,  for  here  are  abundant  citations  which  you 
can  verify  for  yourself,  to  prove  that  the  educated 
classes  in  Greece  and  Rome  were  monotheists; 
held  essentially  the  same  beliefs  in  Providence  and 
design  in  Nature  that  Christians  do;  professed  the 
same  reliance  in  God's  goodness,  and  resignation  to 
His  will;  had  the  same  hope  of  immortality,  with 
the  same  inducements  to  well-doing  for  its  sake 
(but  without  the  same  slavish  fears  of  Hell);  prac- 
ticed the  same  charity  and  forgiveness,  and  vastly 
more  toleration;  and,  with  a  few  exceptions  in  the 
Bible  itself,  expressed  their  doctrines  in  a  litera- 
ture infinitely  loftier  than  that  of  the  fathers  of  the 
Church." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  all  this,"  said  Nina,  with  a 
second  sigh,  over  both  her  old  ignorance  and  her 
new  knowledge.  "  Girls  seem  to  be  shown  only 
one  side.  But  after  all,  what  you  detract  from  the 
originality  of  Christianity,  makes  its  great  influence 
appear  all  the  more  wonderful.  Surely  there  must 
have  been  something  divine  in  Christ." 

"There  is  in  every  great  genius,"  said  Muriel, 
with  a  reverent  tone  that  sometimes  came  from 
that  paradoxical  youth.  "  Half  the  gods  have 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  227 

been  made  of    people's  reverence  for  great   men. 
Imagine  the  beautiful  doctrines  we've  been  talk- 
ing about,  brought  to  an  oppressed  people  sorely 
needing  charity  and  consolation,  and  especially  to 
the  lower  classes  among  whom  such  doctrines  were 
comparatively    strange;    imagine    them    preached 
by  a   man   of    Christ's   presence    and    genius  and 
consciousness  of  power.     Even  if  he  were  not,  in 
any  peculiar  sense,  the  Son  of  God,  would  not  the 
people,    a   few   generations    later,   (especially    the 
wonder-loving  Greeks,  in  whose  language  the  gos- 
pels were  written,  a  good  while  after  his  death,) 
have    been    ready    to    make    him    a   god,  as    they 
did  their  mythical  heroes  ?     Even   if   he  had  not 
claimed   such   divinity  himself,  as   I'm   not  at  all 
sure  he  did,  would  not  his  followers  have  claimed 
it  for  him,  as  I'm  mighty  sure  they  did,  and  have 
elaborated  the  claim  by  all  sorts  of  '  supernatural ' 
detail  ?     Such    claims  were  not    received  then  as 
they  would  be  to-day,  despite  the  fact  that  people 
to-day  admit  the  claims  made  then  :    but   if   the 
same  tales  were  told  as  having  happened  a  year 
ago,  nobody  would    believe    them.     People   have 
always  swallowed  things  regarding  the  past,  even 
a  few  generations  past,  that  they  would  not  admit 
regarding  the  present;  and  all  that  made  it  much 
easier  for  Christianity  to  spread." 

"Yes,  there's  something  in  that,"  said  Nina. 
"  I've  heard  that  almost  every  people  looks  back 
for  its  golden  age." 

"Certainly,"  assented  Muriel,  "  when  the  fact  is 
that  in  the  assumed  golden  ages,  our  ancestors 
were  brutes,  and  for  the  real  golden  age,  we  must 


228  Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings. 

look  forward.  But  here's  another  reason  why 
Christianity  took  hold  so  readily.  You  know  that 
the  religions  which  Christ  found  existing  when 
he  appeared — what  was  left  of  them,  made  few 
promises  and  very  vague  ones:  but  Christ,  or  his 
reporters  at  least,  offered  some  sort  of  reward  in 
nearly  every  sentence.  They  led  every  beggar  to 
expect  to  be  on  horseback  in  a  very  short  time. 
Every  religion  starts  among  the  beggars,  because 
they've  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose  : 
and  yet  you  always  hear  the  fact  that  Christianity 
did,  harped  upon  as  if  it  were  something  wonder- 
ful. Christ's  parables  generally  made  the  good 
people  poor,  and  the  bad  ones  rich;  the  poor 
thought  he  was  going  to  give  them  everything — 
that  is,  everything  consistent  with  morality,  and  a 
good  deal  more  laziness  and  irresponsibility  than 
are  consistent  with  it;  the  people  took  much  of 
what  he  said  about  his  '  Kingdom,'  whether  he 
meant  it  so  or  not,  as  offering  them  a  new  earthly 
dynasty,  just  as  people  offered  a  new  religion  gen- 
erally do,  and  they  were  so  full  of  it  that  they 
wanted  the  Roman  empire  destroyed  to  make 
way  for  it,  and  some  think  that  the  Roman  Chris- 
tians stimulated  the  barbarian  Christians  in  that 
job.  When  it  became  plain  that  Christ's  Kingdom 
was  not  to  be  looked  for  here,  it  was  looked  for 
hereafter,  mainly  at  first,  of  course,  by  the  people 
who  had  nothing  to  look  for  here  anyhow.  Partly 
to  gain  those  things,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  from 
better  motives,  the  people  practiced,  more  or  less, 
the  altruistic  morality  that  Christ  had  impressed 
upon  them,  and  that  was  good  enough  and,  to  the 
majority,  new  enough  to  soon  commend  the  sect  to 


Muriel  Takes  a  Short  Innings.  229 

the  attention  of  the  better  classes.  And  so,  you 
see,  here  you  are  a  Christian,  and  nothing  super- 
natural about  it." 

"  Well  !"  exclaimed  Nina,  with  a  long  breath. 
"  It  won't  do  to  be  sure  of  anything,  will  it  ?"  Then 
she  added,  rebounding  from  the  strain  she  had 
been  under  into  a  little  playfulness:  "  You're  very 
learned  with  your  big  books  there,  aren't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  you  with  the  stuff  Courtenay  gave 
you.  So  we're  quits.  Quits  !  Quits  !"  he  cried, 
laughing  and  jumping  up  and  dancing  around  the 
piazza.  Then,  to  make  her  come,  he  seized  her 
hand,  but  got  playfully  slapped  on  his  own. 

"  Let's  take  a  ride!"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know  if  mamma  will  let  me.  Can  we 
have  a  groom  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  what's  the  use  ?  Mrs.  Grundy  doesn't 
call  for  one  here." 

Soon,  after  a  little  demur  from  Mrs.  Wahring, 
they  were  having  some  royal  good  gallops  over 
bits  of  turf  and  soft  road,  or  meditatively  walking 
their  horses  through  woods,  or  pausing  on  bare 
far-reaching  heights;  and  they  found  too  much  in 
the  sunlight  and  brisk  air,and  buoyancy  of  youth, 
to  bother  their  heads  any  more  about  Napoleon  or 
Charles,  or  the  Man  of  Peace  whose  victories  sur- 
pass theirs;  or  even  about  Nina's  question:  "It 
won't  do  to  be  sure  of  anything,  will  it?"  They 
had  not  yet  begun  to  hear  the  thunders  which 
mutter  under  that  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AIDS     TO     MATRIMONY. 

MRS.  WAHRING  had  not  cared  to  startle  her 
game,  but  she  had  now  been  at  Fleuvemont  long 
enough  to  sound  Calmire's  heart  on  her  matri- 
monial projects.  One  evening  as  they  were 
strolling  in  the  grounds,  she  began  speaking  of 
the  pleasant  time  the  four  were  having  together, 
•'except,  of  course,  the  constant  sparring  of  those 
young  people,  who  were  never  made  to  agree," 
and  then  she  said  that  her  very  enjoyment  made 
her  reflect  that  it  could  not  last — that  the  time  must 
come  when  she  (somehow  she  omitted  Nina)  must 
leave  Fleuvemont.  "  Of  course,  I  have  compensa- 
tion in  my  own  home  and  my  husband's  society," 
she  said,  "  but  you —  She  paused,  and  then  she 
plunged: 

"  Cousin  Calmire,  why  don't  you  marry  again  ?" 

"  Haven't  had  the  chance." 

"  Ridiculous!     Don't  you  want  to  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly." 

"  Then,  why  haven't  you  ?" 

"  I've  told  you." 

"  Now,  don't  play  with  me.  You  know  you 
could  marry  any  woman  you  please." 

"  I  haven't  had  the  chance  to  please." 

"You  are  too  fastidious.  You  need  to  shape 

230 


Aids  to  Matritrony.  231 

some  one  to  suit  you.  Take  some  one  who  is 
young  enough  and  you  can  make  her  anything 
you  please." 

"But  what  can  I  make  of  myself  to  suit  her?  I 
am  too  old  for  a  girl  to  marry.  What  right  have 
I  to  tie  a  woman  of  forty  to  a  man  over  seventy? 
That  would  be  the  case  in  twenty  years  if  I  were 
to  marry  a  girl  of  twenty." 

"  You  might  not  keep  her  tied  so  long,  then," 
laughed  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  Oh,  my  family  lives  to  ninety.  But,"  he  mused 
aloud,  "  in  that  case,  I  should  not." 

"  If  you  should  not,  then  what  wrong  do  you 
do?" 

"  The  wrong  of  depriving  a  girl  of  the  natu- 
ral love  of  a  person  of  near  her  own  age." 

"  Is  there  any  certainty  of  her  getting  it  ?  And 
if  she  does,  she  gets  the  thoughtless  impetuous 
treatment  of  a  boy.  In  exchange,  you  give  her 
your  experienced  and  tempered  care,  and  you  keep 
her  in  contact  with  a  mind  to  know  which  '  is  a 
liberal  education.' " 

"Don't  you  be  sarcastic!  And  above  all  things, 
don't  you  put  too  much  confidence  in  any  such 
nonsensical  expression  that  may  occur  to  you  in 
regard  to  me.  I  am  reaching  the  age  when  men 
begin  to  ossify  their  opinions.  A  woman  who 
wants  an  education  had  better  take  a  younge 
man." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  it  is  your  habit  to  let 
your  opinions  change  with  discoveries,  and  that  it 
was  not  the  habit  of  the  men  just  before  you, 
whose  opinions  you  have  watched  ossify  ?  You  are 


232  Aids  to  Matrimony. 

not  like  us  who  have  a  Faith.  Why,  you  experience 
a  certain  wild  delight  in  finding  yourself  wrong." 

"  Hilda  Wahring!  Why  don't  you  do  your  brains 
justice,  oftener?  Oh  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil!" 

"  Thank  you,  especially  regarding  the  last  two. 
I'd  rather  be  devoted  to  the  first,  though,  with  a 
little  reservation  for  the  next  world,  than  to  the 
wicked  notions  you're  so  stubborn  in." 

"  Well,  I'll  apologize  so  far  as  concerns  the  flesh 
and  the  devil,  except  as  they  always  follow  the 
world  as  sharks  follow  a  ship.  But  as  to  my  notions, 
I  hope,  to  use  your  phraseology,  that  the  Lord  will 
give  me  strength  to  stand  to  some  notions  that 
you've  attacked  this  evening.  I've  no  business  with 
a  girl  for  a  wife." 

"  Any  girl  whom  you  will  make  your  wife,  is  to 
be  congratulated." 

And  this  sentence  survived  in  his  memory,  while 
most  of  the  arguments  with  which  the  lady  had 
supported  it,  faded  away.  But,  of  course,  Calmire 
was  the  first  thoughtful  and  candid  man  who  could 
be  more  affected  by  a  generalization  fastening  it- 
self upon  his  vanity,  than  by  an  argument  attack- 
ing his  reason! 

Calmire  was  too  old  a  fish  not  to  recognize  bait 
when  he  could  see  the  angler  extending  it.  Mrs. 
Wahring's  conversation  could  not  have  been  plainer 
to  him  if  it  had  been  condensed  into  the  simple 
statement:  "  My  dear  old  friend,  I  wish  you  would 
marry  my  daughter.  I  know  you  would  make  her 
happy,  and  I  know  no  other  fate  for  her  that  I  so 
much  desire." 


Aids  to  Matrimony.  233 

And  here  Mrs.  Wahring,  though  ordinarily  a 
good  tactician,  made  a  bad  move.  There  were  two 
excuses  for  her:  Calmire  was  an  old  friend  with 
whom  candor  had  been  her  rule,  and  with  whom, 
in  fact,  candcr  was  almost  everybody's  rule ;  then, 
moreover,  she  felt,  and  not  wrongly,  that  her  con- 
victions about  his  marrying  would  have  weight 
with  him.  Her  mistake  was  in  not  confining  her- 
self to  expressing  them  incidentally.  He  was 
enough  interested  in  the  subject  to  note  them 
without  requiring  special  emphasis.  As  it  was, 
feeling  his  positions  attacked,  he  aroused  himself 
to  their  defence.  He  should  have  been  tempted 
to  abandon  them  by  finding  others  more  attrac- 
tive. Moreover,  aside  from  his  convictions  regard- 
ing women  in  general,  he  was  put  specially  on  his 
guard  respecting  Nina. 

He  knew  that  the  girl  found  him  interesting, 
and  was  glad  that  she  did.  But  he  determined 
that  in  one  respect  she  should  not  find  him  too  in- 
teresting. Therefore,  not  seldom  when  he  caught 
her  hanging  on  his  words  or  found  himself  pur- 
sued by  her  intelligent  curiosity,  he  abruptly  drew 
the  topic  into  some  less  fruitful  field  or  overturned 
it  with  a  jest.  This  was  because  he  had  little  sym- 
pathy, as  he  had  intimated  to  Muriel,  with  the 
latter's  attempt  to  set  up  a  kindergarten  in  in- 
fidelity for  Miss  Wahring's  instruction,  and  was 
certainly  not  prepared  to  teach  in  it  while  she  and 
her  mother  were  his  guests. 

This  produced  upon  her  interest  in  him,  an  effect 
like  those  of  most  artificial  policies,  as  undesirable 
as  the  one  it  was  intended  to  avoid.  He  became 


234  Aids  to  Matrimony. 

an  object  of  tantalizing  curiosity  to  the  girl,  and 
aroused  in  her  a  suspicion  that  he  did  not  deem 
her  worthy  of  his  free  confidence;  and  this,  as  she 
knew  him  to  be  devoid  of  conceit,  made  him  ap- 
pear to  her  all  the  more  exalted. 

The  next  day,  Muriel  being  off  on  some  devices 
of  his  own,  Mrs.  Wahring  being. disabled  by  a  con- 
venient headache,  and  there  happening  to  be  no 
other  visitors  in  the  house,  Nina  found  herself 
starting  out  about  five  o'clock  with  Calmire  alone 
in  the  dog-cart. 

Of  the  dog-cart  as  an  aid  to  matrimony,  not  all 
has  been  said  that  the  subject  deserves,  though  it 
is  true  that  much  is  made  of  it  in  the  novels  of  the 
fair  Mrs.  Higliff,  «/<?  Deasent;  and  those  who  have 
had  the  opportunity  for  a  season  or  two,  to  fre- 
quently see  her  in  the  park  exalted  in  the  trap  of 
her  present  happy  lord  above  the  victoriaed  and 
landaued  herd,  have  fully  recognized  the  potency 
of  that  method  of  locomotion  in  effecting  the  mar- 
riage which  raised  her  from  the  circles  of  Pres- 
byterian respectability  to  those  of  horse-racing 
aristocracy. 

As  promoter  of  the  love  which  leads  to  marriage, 
the  dog-cart  cannot  be  too  highly  honored  by  all 
economists  who  oppose  Malthus.  But  as  a  sus- 
tainer  of  love  after  marriage,  its  frequent  inefficacy 
might  delight  the  soul  of  Malthus  himself.  To  the 
philosophic  observer,  there  is  something  in  the 
relation  of  the  dog-cart  to  this  whole  subject, 
which  may  be  interesting  enough  tc  justify  far- 
ther elucidation, 


Aids  to  Matrimony.  235 

It  will  be  realized  that  the  inexperienced  driver 
of  the  new  dog-cart  is  generally  in  mourning — of 
course,  for  the  worthy  relative  whose  money  paid  for 
the  trap.  When  the  novice  first  appears,  it  is  apt 
to  be  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  most 
of  the  early  equestrians  are  out  of  the  park,  and 
hours  before  the  more  experienced  artists  on  the 
vehicle  come  out.  The  groom,  or  whatever  func- 
tionary may  wear  the  livery  (also  deep  mourning, 
even  crape  around  the  boot-tops,  in  some  instances), 
is  perched  by  the  master's  side,  instead  of  sitting 
backward  on  the  back  seat — a  position  known  to  be 
impracticable  for  some  new  grooms  on  account  of 
its  tendency  to  create  sea-sickness.  Especially  is  the 
groom  apt  to  be  by  the  master's  side  if  a  tandem  be 
under  consideration,  it  being  then  doubly  important 
that  experience  should  be  at  hand.  A  few  days 
later,  the  trap  is  observable,  at  the  same  hour,  with 
the  groom  in  the  position,  not  (as  we  were  going  to 
say)  for  which  nature  intended  him,  but  to  which 
fashion  has  dedicated  him.  A  few  days  later  still, 
the  trap  with  the  same  arrangements,  appears  in  all 
its  glory  at  the  time  the  world  drives — as  early  as 
three  if  the  owner  be  a  systematic  and  fussy  man, 
or  as  late  as  six  if  he  be  accustomed  to  let  things 
take  care  of  themselves.  Whatever  a  man's  charac- 
teristics— prompt  or  dilatory,  they  will  be  exaggera- 
ted when  he  first  faces  the  world  in  a  new  dog-cart. 

Within  a  fortnight,  the  matrimonial  functions  of 
the  engine  are  first  indicated.  A  young  lady  ap- 
pears, generally  in  a  bright  costume  finely  set  off 
by  the  sombreness  previously  monopolizing  the 
vehicle;  for  she  is  not  usually  a  friend  with  whom 


236  Aids  to  Matrimony. 

the  young  fellow  is  familiar  in  sorrow  and  in  joy, 
but  some  one  whom  he  met  in  society  (and  con- 
sequently not  in  mourning),  shortly  before  the 
melancholy  event  which  led  to  his  own  sables  and 
dog-cart.  The  next  day,  a  second  young  lady  ap- 
pears, the  next  day  a  third,  and  so  on,  until  all  the 
intimate  friends  have  had  a  drive  in  the  new  trap. 
Then  the  first  young  lady  appears  again,  then  for  a 
week  some  of  the  others,  and  so  on,  the  first  ap- 
pearing with  decreasing  intervals  until  she  is  there 
every  pleasant  day.  At  about  this  stage,  a  bunch 
of  light  purple  flowers,  indicative  of  either  ebbing 
woe  or  rising  joy,  is  sometimes  seen  in  the  horse's 
headstall,  and  even  in  the  button-hole  of  the 
groom.  After  a  short  season  of  this  sort  of  loco- 
motion, a  mighty  change  is  noticed — the  groom  has 
disappeared!  He  has  long  been  felt  a  burden  to 
the  confidences  suppressed  on  the  front  seat,  but 
Mrs.  Grundy  has  kept  him  in  his  place.  Now,  Mrs. 
Grundy  releases  all  three  from  their  irksome  situa- 
tion, for  the  young  people  are  engaged.  It  came 

near  being  all  four  in   the  case  of  young ,  for 

he,  not  having  been  reared  in  the  midst  of  good 
precedents,  began  his  matrimonial  pursuit  with 
two  tigers,  but  was  most  ingeniously  corrected  by 
Miss ,  to  whom,  however,  he  did  not  feel  suffi- 
ciently grateful  to  make  her  his  ultimate  every-day 
driving  companion.  Or  perhaps  she  declined  to  be. 
If  smiles  were  water  and  could  be  scattered  from 
the  rear  of  the  vehicle  as  bounteously  as  from  the 
front,  the  dog-cart  with  an  engaged  couple  meet- 
ing friends,  would  render  the  present  style  of 
road-sprinkler  superfluous, 


Aids  to  Matrimony.  237 

The  smiles  are  scattered  till  late  Spring  or  late 
Fall  as  the  case  may  be,  when  the  vehicle  is  laid 
up  during  the  wedding-journey.  After  the  return, 
it  appeals  again  for  a  few  months,  when  it  is 
again  laid  up,  and  after  a  brief  period  it  is,  for 
some  recondite  reason,  replaced  by  a  low  vic- 
toria. A  little  later,  the  couple  is  lost  to  sight  for 
a  month  or  two,  and  when  they  reappear,  the  dog- 
cart alternates  with  the  victoria,  the  husband's 
place  in  the  latter  generally  being  occupied  by  a 
woman  in  a  French  cap  with  a  bundle  in  her  arms. 
Soon,  on  the  days  when  the  victoria  appears, 
the  husband  is  apt  to  be  seen  alone  in  a  road- 
wagon  with  a  trotter,  and  the  general  tendency  is 
for  the  old  place  of  the  dog-cart  to  be  entirely 
usurped  by  the  road-wagon  and  the  victoria,  or 
the  landau  for  which,  before  many  years,  increasing 
family  makes  occasion. 

The  mission  of  the  vehicle  which  founded  the 
family,  is  generally  here  ended.  In  some  rare 
cases,  however,  (with  occasional  intervals  when  so 
high  a  vehicle  is  not  practicable,)  the  dog-cart 
holds  its  own  through  the  lives  of  the  couples  whom 
it  first  brought  together.  In  those  traps,  if  in  any- 
thing that  conveys  humanity,  look  for  happiness! 

Some  day,  however,  all  other  vehicles  give  way 
to  the  hearse,  and  the  impatient  new  generation 
begins  the  pretty  experience  over  again,  in  sables 
and  a  new  dog-cart  of  its  own. 

Whether  Mr.  Legrand  Calmire  was  beginning  the 
standard  dog-cart  experience  on  the  day  when,  on 
the  strength  of  his  patriarchal  years,  he  dispensed 
with  the  groom,  and  drove  tandem  alone  with 


Aids  to  Matrimony. 

Miss  Nina  Wahring,  was  a  question  which  could  not 
escape  his  calm  but  speculative  mind.  Earlier  in 
life,  among  his  sources  of  amusement  had  fre- 
quently been  his  own  superstitions — inherited  ten- 
dencies to  draw  auguries  and  to  believe  things  that 
his  more  modern  individual  judgment  pronounced 
absurd.  The  habit  of  rigidly  following  his  reason, 
regardless  of  the  diversions  of  impulse,  had  now 
so  long  been  his,  however,  that  he  dismissed  these 
inherited  tendencies  almost  unconsciously ;  but 
sometimes,  even  yet,  one  would  produce  a  distinct 
impression  upon  him.  Such  an  one  came  just  before 
he  started  on  this  drive.  The  afternoon  was  cool 
for  the  season,  and  he  told  Pierre  to  bring  him  a  top- 
coat. Thereupon  flashed  through  his  mind  a  vague 
notion  that  if  Pierre  should  bring  a  light-colored 
coat,  the  outcome  of  his  chat  with  Nina  would  be 
favorable  to  the  notions  Mrs.  Wahring  had  been 
putting  in  his  head;  but  that  if  the  coat  were 
dark,  it  would  be  unfavorable.  Pierre  brought  a 
mackintosh  that  was  neither  light  nor  dark,  and 
Calmire  had  a  quiet  laugh  at  his  own  expense. 
The  question  faintly  before  him  was  a  little  compli- 
cated by  a  thought  that  had  once  or  twice  passed 
through  his  mind.  That  there  was  any  question 
at  all,  annoyed  him;  and  partly  for  the  sake  of 
getting  rid  of  it,  he  attacked  it,  in  the  course  of  the 
ride,  at  the  point  where  his  own  complication  lay: 

"What  do  you  and  Muriel  quarrel  most  about? 
Going  home  the  other  night,  I  didn't  hear  half 
your  talk,  though  Muriel  seemed  to  think  I  did." 

"We  quarreled  over  everything,  I  suppose.  We 
generally  do." 


Aids  to  Matrimony.  239 

"  I  congratulate  you!  I  hardly  expected  so  much 
scope  in  people  so  young." 

"  I  wish  I  didn't  give  you  the  chance  to  laugh  at 
me  so  often.  I  meant  everything  that  we  talked 
about." 

"Ah!  that's  not  quite  so  startling.  What  did 
you  talk  about?" 

"Well,  the  most  interesting  thing  was  himself." 

"To  him  undoubtedly;  but  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  me:  though  he  didn't  think  I  thought  so." 

"What  do  you  find  so  interesting  about  him?" 

"  His  deformities." 

"Ah !  you  hit  me  hard  there,  my  child.  I  might 
have  prevented  the  growth  of  many  of  them.  Yet," 
he  mused  aloud, "  I  was  not  his  parents,  much  less  all 
his  ancestors.  It  is  unquestionably  true  that  '  the 
sins  of  the  fathers '  are  '  visited  upon  the  children.' 
So  probably,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  Muriel's  ancestors 
are  responsible  for  anything  you  don't  like  in  him; 
while  I'm  responsible  only  for  anything  you  do 
like." 

"  What  a  horrid  set  of  infidels  his  ancestors  must 
have  been,  then!  Pity  that  half  of  them  were  your 
own  !" 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  good  half!"  laughed  Calmire. 
"  Only  it  wasn't — perhaps  not  as  good  as  the  other. 
On  both  sides  there  were  some  who  would  have 
been  called  infidels." 

"Well,"  said  Nina,  "as  to  the  present  infidel — " 

"  Do  you  mean  me  ?"  asked  Calmire;  "  because  if 
you  do,  I  think  I'll  have  to  trouble  you  to  define 
the  term." 


240  Aids  to  Matrimony. 

"  No,  I  mean  Mr.  Muriel.  Now  if  all  that  he 
says  about  Christianity  is  true — -all  that  you  don't 
contradict,  I  mean, — one  might  even  doubt  its 
divine  origin.  But  if  it  is  not  divine,  how  did  it 
ever-  do  so  much  ?" 

"  For  my  part,"  he  answered,  "  I  can't  doubt  the 
divine  origin  of  anything:  though  it's  not  often 
that  two  people  mean  quite  the  same  thing  by  the 
word  'divine.'  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  it,  Mr.  Calmire  ?" 

"  I  believe,"  he  answered,  "  that  Christianity  was 
sent  by  the  same  Power  that  sends  everything — 
the  Power  you  call  divine." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Calmire,  you  must  be  a  Christian." 

"  So  I  am,  on  the  same  ground  that  all  men  are 
who  accept  as  divine  all  that  seems  to  them  rea- 
sonable in  the  faith,  and  attribute  all  else  to 
metaphor  and  accident.  Christians  vary,  you 
know,  especially  as  time  goes  on.  Don't  you  re- 
member your  saying  once  that  you  would  not 
accept  the  Christianity  of  five  hundred  years  ago?" 

"  Yes.  But,  it  seems  to  me  that  on  your  ground 
pretty  much  everybody  is  a  Christian." 

"  I  don't  know  anybody  who  is  on  any  other 
ground,"  said  Calmire,  "  if  he  uses  his  reason  at 
all." 

"And  that's  just  what  Mr.  Courtenay  doesn't 
do  !"  exclaimed  Nina.  "  He  professes  to  give  up 
even  his  reason  for  his  faith." 

"  Well  !"  commented  Calmire.  "  As  good  a  man 
as  Mr.  Courtenay  can  afford  to,  perhaps.  But 
those  of  us  who  haven't  his  goodness,  have  to  find 
our  way  by  such  lights  as  we  have.  But  we  are 


Aids  to  Matrimony.  241 

wandering  very  far  from  our  starting-point.  All 
this  talk  has  grown  out  of  what  you  are  pleased  to 
term  Muriel's  deformities.  I  don't  know  how  far 
they  are  to  be  divided  up  between  his  ancestors 
and  his  circumstances.  Do  you  find  his  deformities 
very  monstrous?" 

"  Oh  no  !  They  would  not  be  worth  noticing  in 
an  ordinary  young  man." 

"  What  ?     Do  you  think  him  extraordinary?" 

"  I  certainly  do." 

"  So  does  he,"  said  his  uncle. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  responded. 

"There's  one  point  at  least,"  said  Calmire,  "on 
which  you  agree." 

"Hardly,"  said  Nina;  "his  opinion  of  himself  is 
very  different  from  mine." 

"  Well,  what  is  your  opinion  of  him  ?" 

"That  he's  a  very  brilliant  and  profound  young 
man,  who  turns  out  of  his  way  very  little  for  any- 
body or  anything  but  himself." 

His  uncle's  opinion  of  his  brilliancy  and  pro- 
fundity might  not  have  been  as  favorable  as  Nina's. 
Calmire  did  not  discuss  that,  though,  but  said: 

"You  do  him  injustice.  He's  the  most  affec- 
tionate fellow  in  the  world." 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  Nina,  " — when  it  doesn't 
interfere  with  his  convenience.", 

"  There  you're  correct,  and  there's  where  I  blame 
myself.  I  have  not  made  the  effort  I  ought,  to  keep 
him  where  he  would  grow  up  consulting  the  con- 
venience of  those  he  loved.  You  think  he's 
honest  ?" 

"Yes." 


242  Aids  to  Matrimony. 

"  He  intends  to  be,"  said  Calmire,  "but  it  takes 
a  strong  man  to  be  honest  always." 

"  He's  strong!"  said  Nina. 

"He's  young,"  answered  Calmire  "Well,"  he 
resumed,  "you  think  him  brilliant,  honest,  and 
strong.  That's  a  good  deal.  Can't  you  humor  a 
doting  old  man  with  a  little  more?" 

"  He's  handsome  as — as — well,  as  himself  :  none 
of  the  pictures  or  statues  are  like  him,  though 
they're  no  finer." 

"And  yet  you  find  the  most  interesting  thing 
about  him  his  deformities!" 

They  both  laughed. 

"Well,"  protested  Nina,  "he's  conceited,  selfish, 
lazy,  and  I  suspect  not  very  thorough." 

"You  seem  to  have  studied  him  pretty  well  on 
so  short  an  acquaintance,"  said  Calmire. 

"  Oh,  I  see  through  people  pretty  well." 

So  far,  Calmire  had  not  got  much  light  on  his 
little  complication.  He  attacked  it  directly: 

"Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Do  you  admire  him  ?" 

"Of  course,  in  some  things." 

"  Would  you  trust  him  ?" 

"  In  everything  where  he  could  be  deliberate." 

Calmire  turned  square  around  and  looked  at  her. 

"  What  business  has  a  girl  like  you  making  such 
a  piece  of  character-analysis  as  that  ?" 

"  A  girl  like  me,"  she  said,  turning  toward  him, 
and  looking  directly  in  his  eyes,  "does  not  always 
judge  character  well,  though.  I  want  you  now  to 


Aids  to  Matrimony.  243 

forgive  me  for  mistrusting  yours  because  I've  mis- 
trusted your  opinions." 

He  returned  her  gaze  smiling,  and  taking  the 
reins  in  his  right  hand,  put  his  left  on  hers,  say- 
ing: 

"  Well  !  '  a  girl  like  you  '  is  a  queer  thing  !" 
She  looked  up,  blushing  and  smiling,  and  the 
tandem  trotted  homeward  bearing  two  friends  for 
life.  The  outcome  of  the  talk  had  been  as  neutral 
as  the  color  of  Calmire's  coat.  He  had  been  mainly 
occupied  in  teaching  the  girl  a  few  of  the  simple 
things  she  wanted  to  know,  and,  so  far  as  he 
thought  about  it,  he  thought  that  the  function 
most  appropriate  for  him.  And  yet — ? 

The  quiet  troop  of  long  shadows  had  left  the 
hillsides  and  followed  the  music  of  the  birds  west- 
ward with  the  Sun.  Soon  tree-toads  and  other  plain- 
colored  folk  on  the  dark  sides  of  the  trees,  began  to 
tell  that  the  nights  were  growing  longer.  Down  in 
the  pond,  a  big  frog,  thinking  of  his  Winter-sleep, 
growled  out  :  "  Don't  care.  Let  it  come!  Let 
it  come!"  He  startled  the  other  singers  so  that 
they  all  stopped,  and  it  was  so  quiet  that  two  or 
three  little  stars  peeped  out.  Over  where  it  was 
too  bright  for  others  to  come,  the  sky  was  yellow, 
and  under  it  the  hills  were  deep,  deep  blue.  The 
air  began  to  be  cool,  and  Calmire  reached  back  for 
more  wraps,  and  they  both  thought  pleasantly  of 
the  deep  dining-room  hearth:  not  eagerly,  though, 
for  no  feeling  of  haste  could  disturb  that  peace. 
All  feeling  was  toward  rest:  to  the  children  who 
loved  her,  the  great  Mother  was  opening  her 
arms. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

GENTLE    MAGIC    AND    HARD    PHILOSOPHY. 

A  WEEK  or  two  later,  the  two  Calmire  house- 
holds and  Courtenay,  with  a  different  young  lady 
in  the  place  of  Sallie  Stebbins,  dined  again  at 
John's.  After  dinner  Muriel  went  to  the  ladies  on 
the  piazza,  and,  without  any  polite  subterfuge, 
proclaimed  to  two  of  them  that  he  liked  their  com- 
pany less  than  that  of  the  third,  by  asking  Miss 
Wahring  to  take  a  little  stroll. 

Mrs.  Wahring  protested  that  it  was  late,  et 
cetera,  et  cetera,  but  Muriel's  heavy  will  crashed 
through  all  her  little  diplomacies  and  he  and  Nina 
started  off. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Nina. 

"  I  don't  care,"  Muriel  answered,  but  did  not  take 
the  pains  to  learn  if  she  did. 

"I've  never  seen  the  poor  parts  of  the  town,"  she 
said.  "Are  they  dangerous  at  night?" 

"  Oh  no  !  There's  no  very  poor  part  here,  but 
we  can  walk  through  such  as  there  are,  even  before 
it  gets  very  dark." 

"Then  let's  go  slumming." 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  they  were  passing  a  row  of 
very  small  cottages,  they  encountered  a  woman 
standing  by  a  gate  half  open  outwards,  looking 
anxiously  up  the  street.  As  they  stepped  aside, 
she  said: 

244 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.        245 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Muriel.  Have  you  seen  any- 
thing of  Dr.  Rossman  or  Mr.  Courtenay?" 

"  Oh!  it's  you,  is  it,  Mrs.  Walters  ?  I  didn't  know 
you  lived  here,  and  it  was  a  little  dark  to  recognize 
you.  I've  just  left  Mr.  Courtenay  at  Mr.  John's." 

"To-night  my  William  was  taken  awful  bad," 
said  the  woman,  "and  I  sent  off  for  one  of  them. 
I've  been  looking  into  the  face  of  everybody  that 
passed:  that's  why  I  knew  you/1 

"What's  the  matter?"  briskly  inquired  Nina. 

"It's  my  poor  boy,  Miss;  he  got  hurted  in  the 
mills  near  a  year  ago,  and  he  gets  light  in  his  head 
and  frightened  like,  and  nobody  can't  keep  him 
quiet  but  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Courtenay.  There 
he  is,  takin'  on  now." 

They  recognized  sounds  of  moaning  and  depre- 
cation from  the  house,  which  had  not  struck  their 
attention  before. 

"  Let  me  go  to  him,"  said  Nina,  and,  in  her  en- 
thusiastic way,  went  right  past  the  woman  without 
waiting  for  the  amenities. 

The  woman  caught  hold  of  her  and  said:  "  Mebbe 
he's  not  fit  for  you  to  see,  Miss.  Wait  a  bit  till  I 
go  in."  And  she  went  into  the  house,  leaving  Mu- 
riel at  the  gate,  and  Nina  a  pace  or  two  inside 
of  it. 

This  was  not  what  Mr.  Muriel  had  bargained  for. 
He  had  come  out  to  enjoy  himself  walking  alone 
with  Miss  Wahring,  not  to  be  troubled  over  an  idiotic 
pauper,  or  to  wait  alone  while  she  was.  He  said: 

"  Oh,  come  along.  You  can't  do  anything  for  the 
boy,  so  what's  the  use  of  bothering?  The  doctor 


246         Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy. 

or  Courtenay  will  be  along  soon.     The  messenger 
must  have  found  one  of  them  by  this  time." 

Nina  looked  hard  at  him  with  a  shade  of  disap- 
pointment. After  a  moment,  she  said:  "I  don't 
know  whether  I  can  do  anything  for  him — prob- 
ably I  can't:  but  it  may  be  something  to  his  poor 
mother  to  have  somebody  with  her  till  the  others 
come.  I'm  going  to  try,  anyhow.  I've  done  some 
queer  things  in  the  way  of  quieting  pain." 

"  It's  not  so  much  pain  with  this  chap,"  said  Mu- 
riel, "but  he  has  fits  of  horrors,  as  I  understand  it 
— something  like  jim-jams." 
"What  are  jim-jams?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know?     From  drinking  hard." 
"Oh!     Does  he  take  too  much ?" 
"Oh   no!     Nothing  of  that  kind.     It's  from   a 
blow  he  got  on  the  head." 
"Does  he  get  no  better?" 

"  I  don't  know:  I  don't  know  much  about  it,  any- 
way." 

"And  don't  care?"  said  Nina,  impatiently. 
"  Not  very  much,  I  guess: — no  affair  of  mine.     If 
Nature  will  do  such  things,  I  suppose  she's  got  to 
have  her  own  way." 

"Then  I  don't  see  what  we've  got  hearts  for." 
"Oh,  there  are  nuisances  enough  for  them,  with- 
out any  such  nuisances  as  this." 

"  It's  not  nice  in  you  to  look  at  it  in  that  way," 
she  remonstrated. 

"It's  not  nice  in  Nature.     Don't  blame  me." 
Here  the  woman   came  half-timidly  back,  and 
Nina  followed   her  in,  while  Muriel  remained  by 
the  gate.    While  the  mother  had  been  in  the  house, 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.       247 

the  moaning  had  been  more  interrupted  and  had 
changed  to  occasional  protestation.  When  Nina 
appeared  in  the  door,  it  stopped. 

Muriel  shifted  his  position,  and  through  the  open 
window  could  see  the  boy — a  fellow  of  some  sixteen 
years, who  would  have  looked  very  commonplace  but 
for  the  paleness  and  emaciation  of  his  face,  empha- 
sized by  a  great  shock  of  sandy  hair.  He  was  gaz- 
ing at  Nina  with  pleased  surprise.  Muriel  stepped 
near  enough  to  hear  him  say,  after  a  moment: 

"Why,  you'm  not  a  bit  like  the  others!" 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  not,  if  the  others  frightened  you," 
said  Nina. 

"Oh,  but  they  did  !  They's  awful  !  Where  be 
they  gone  to  ?" 

"  I've  tried  to  send  them  away,"  Nina  answered, 
"and  I  don't  think  they'll  come  back." 

"Oh,  you  know  'em,  then,"  half  wailed  the  boy. 
"  Mother  swears  she  don't." 

"I  saw  some  of  them  once,"  responded  Nina. 

"What  in  the  devil's  name  does  the  woman 
mean  ?"  muttered  Muriel,  half  aloud. 

"You  did!"  exclaimed  the  lad.  "Did  the  big 
red  one  hit  you  on  the  head  too  ?" 

"No,"  said  Nina,  who  by  this  time  had  gone  up 
and  shaken  hands  with  the  boy  and  seated  herself 
beside  him.  "  It  wasn't  that  way.  I  had  a  book 
full  of  green  and  red  and  yellow  pictures,  and 
when  I  looked  at  it  till  my  eyes  got  tired,  and 
then  looked  up,  I  saw  the  queer  things  dancing 
all  over  the  wall  and  the  ceiling." 

"That  wasn't  like  mine,"  said  the  boy. 

"Not    exactly,"   Nina   assented;    "but    I    think 


248        Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy. 

they're  a  good  deal  alike.  Mine  came  because 
I  hurt  my  nerves  a  little,  and  yours  came  because 
you  hurt  your  nerves  a  great  deal." 

"  What's  nerves  ?  Is  it  only  people  whose  nerves 
get  hurted  what  can  see  'em  ?  Mother  can't  see 
'em.  Could  she  see  'em  if  her  nerves  was  to  be 
hurted  ?  You  know  lots  more  than  she  does  or 
doctor.  Oh,  here  they  be  again!"  half  cried  the 
boy,  cowering  back  with  an  expression  that  was 
terrible  to  see. 

"  They  sha'n't  get  to  you,"  said  Nina,  taking  his 
hand.  "  I'll  get  in  front  of  you."  And  she  moved 
her  chair  from  beside  the  boy  directly  in  front  of 
him.  This  brought  her  back  toward  Muriel,  and 
he  got  disgusted  again. 

The  light  from  the  mantel  now  shone  through 
the  increasing  darkness  full  on  her  face,  which  was 
directly  opposite  the  poor  boy.  This  diverted  his 
disordered  imaginings  again,  as  her  entrance  had 
done.  She  still  held  his  hand  and  talked  with 
him  soothingly  for  several  minutes.  He  gazed  at 
her  steadily,  only  uttering  monosyllables,  until  at 
last  he  said: 

"  You'm  not  like  anybody  ever  I  seen,  and  yet 
you'm  not  like  them  neither.  What  be  you  any- 
how ?" 

"  Only  a  young  woman  who  is  very  sorry  you 
have  so  much  trouble." 

"  No,  you'm  more  than  that.  I  guess  likely 
you'm  an  angel." 

Muriel  said  to  himself,  "Well,  if  here  isn't  an- 
other at  it!" 

Nina  laughed  low  and  musically,  not  with  her 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.      249 

usual  hearty  peais  that  would  hcve  jarred  the 
boy's  distressed  nerves. 

"  Oh,  but  it's  pretty  to  see  you  laugh  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  something  more  like  vivacity  than 
anything, except  the  fear  of  a  moment  before,  that 
his  tired  face  had  shown.  This  started  Nina's 
laughter  afresh.  A  little  after  she  subsided,  the 
boy  said  to  her  cheerfully  but  beseechingly: 

"  Laugh  again  !" 

This  time  there  was  a  little  intention  mingled 
with  the  laugh,  and  he  said  : 

"  It  was  prettier  before.     I'm  getting  sleepy." 

Nina  said:  "  It's  very  easy  for  you  to  find  things 
pretty.  Do  you  like  flowers  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  care  much  for  'em." 

"What  do  you  like?" 

"  Oh,  I  like  girls,  and  angels,  and  dogs,  and  such 
things." 

This  started  Nina's  laugh  again. 

"  That's  it !     That's  it !"  cried  the  boy. 

"Don't  you  like  some  other  things?"  said  Nina. 

"Oh  yes;  before  I  got  sick,"  he  said  wearily,  "I 
had  a  jew's-harp." 

"What  tunes  could  you  play?" 

"  Oh,  I  can't  think  now.  I'm  tired,  and  I  can  go 
to  sleep.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  though,  if  you'll 
come  again,"  he  said,  stretching  himself  and  gap- 
ing, "  if  you'll  come  and  laugh.  Will  you  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  will,"  said  Nina. 

Then  the  mother  approached  and  said,  "  Oh, 
Miss,  you  make  him  feel  so  good." 

Nina  exchanged  a  few  words  with  her,  and  then 
said  to  her  son:  "  When  I  come  again,  what  shall  I 


250      Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy. 

bring  you?  Have  you  still  the  jew's-harp?  I 

might  bring "  She  had  been  moving  to  go, 

but  her  eyes  now  fell  again  on  the  boy.  He  was 
asleep. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  !"  said  the  woman,  follow- 
ing her  to  the  door.  "Nobody  never  quieted  him 
like  this." 

"  Why,  it  seems  easy  enough,"  said  Nina,  "  if 
you'll  only  let  him  have  his  own  way  and  lead  him 
gently  to  think  of  other  things." 

"  Yes,  but  that's  not  so  easy.  You  was  some- 
thing for  him  to  think  of,  yourself,  you  see.  J  try 
that  way,  but  he's  used  to  me  and  all  I  can  do. 
The  doctor  and  Mr  Courtenay  tries  it,  but  they're 
nothing  but  men." 

"  Well,  I'll  come  some  more  until  he  gets  used  to 
me — and  tired  of  me,"  said  Nina,  and  shook  hands 
and  passed  out. 

Muriel,  who  was  standing  beside  the  door, 
stepped  on  to  the  sill,  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
woman,  and  said,  "  Good-night,  Mrs.  Walters." 
Then  Nina  heard  a  few  words  of  a  rather  protracted 
discussion,  Muriel  insisting  and  the  woman  object- 
ing, and  finally  yielding,  after  which  Muriel,  with 
two  or  three  long  strides,  half  jumps,  placed  himself 
by  the  gate  after  Nina  had  opened  it  for  herself. 

They  went  along  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  two 
until  they  were  met  by  a  man  walking  almost  at  a 
run.  They  could  see  it  was  Courtenay. 

"  Come  back  !"  said  Muriel,  seizing  his  arm  as  he 
was  rushing  past  without  recognizing  them,  "your 
work  is  done." 

"  He  isn't  dead  ?"  exclaimed  Courtenay,  half  real- 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.       25 1 

izing  his  misunderstanding  before  it  was  all  ex- 
pressed. 

"  Oh  no  !  Miss  Wahring  has  charmed  him  to 
sleep." 

"  Sweet  wonder-worker  !"  said  Courtenay,  with  a 
reverence  that  excluded  all  suggestion  of  presump- 
tion. Yet  the  expression  nettled  Muriel  a  little. 
For  once,  however,  he  kept  still. 

"Come  back  with  us,"  said  Nina,  to  break  a 
silence  that  she  was  very  quick  to  feel  embarrass- 
ing. 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,  so  far  as  my  corner;"  and 
the  three  walked  on  side  by  side. 

Courtenay  said  in  a  few  moments:  "That's  a 
strange  dispensation  down  there." 

"  I  can't  see  anything  strange  about  it,"  snapped 
Muriel.  "  The  fellow's  head  got  hit  and  it's  addled. 
Nothing  queer  about  that !" 

"  No.  But  that  the  only  son  of  a  widow  should 
be  selected  !" 

"  You  must  keep  pretty  intelligent  blocks  of  wood 
in  this  town,"  said  Muriel,  "  if  they  select  what 
heads  they're  going  to  hit." 

"  And  certainly  a  very  cruel  one  in  this  case," 
quickly  added  Nina,  for  the  sake  of  diverting  the 
conversation.  She  was  conscious  only  of  the  sym- 
pathy she  was  expressing,  and  her  tact  was  too  im- 
mature to  prevent  her  for  the  moment  from  uncon- 
sciously "taking  sides." 

"  There's  a  Power  behind  the  blocks  of  wood," 
said  Courtenay. 

"  Must  be  a  mighty  stupid  one !"  commented 
Muriel,  half  sotto  voct. 


252        Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy. 

"It's  not  for  us  to  judge  it,  Mr.  Calmire." 

"All  right;  I  won't  if  you  won't." 

Victory,  even  when  a  little  brutal,  inspires  a  con- 
ciliatory disposition;  so  a  few  moments  later,  Mu- 
riel resumed: 

"That  poor  chap  seems  to  yield  to  your  good 
handling,  Mr.  Courtenay.  Isn't  he  going  to  get 
well  ?" 

"  His  sufferings  can  be  palliated,  but  the  doctor 
says  he  can  never  get  well." 

"  Then  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  better." 

"His  mother  wouldn't  think  so,"  said  Nina. 

"And  I'm  notsure  thatlshould/'addedCourtenay. 

"  You've  a  tender  heart,  Mr.  Courtenay." 

"  And  your  tough  opinions  have  not  yet  con- 
vinced me  that  you  have  not,  Mr.  Calmire." 

"Well,  that's  very  kind  in  you,  but  I  think  it's  a 
man's  business  to  govern  his  heart  by  his  opinions, 
and  not  his  opinions  by  his  heart.  Now  if  it's  the 
height  of  wisdom  to  follow  Nature,  and  she  permits 
only  the  fittest  to  survive,  why  should  anybody  want 
an  incapable  like  that  to  survive  ?  I  hate  sick  peo- 
ple anyhow." 

"  That  doctrine  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest," 
answered  Courtenay  calmly,  "  I've  often  thought, 
tends  to  make  people  cruel,  and  raises  a  good  many 
hard  questions.  But  it's  a  very  easy  doctrine  for  a 
man  of  your  proportions  to  get  enthusiastic  over." 

"  By  that  same  token,  sir,  it  ought  not  to  be  an 
unwelcome  doctrine  to  a  man  of  yours.  But  where 
is  the  answer  ?" 

"  I  think  there  are  a  good  many.  But  here's  my 
corner,  and  if  I  walk  on  to  preach  to  you  to-night. 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.        253 

my  people  will  be  in  danger  of  short-commons  Sun- 
day. I'd  like  to  talk  it  over  with  you  some  time, 
though.  Good-night.  Good-night,  Miss  Wahring. 
Perhaps  you  can  set  him  straight.  Women  see 
these  things  better  than  men  do  sometimes." 

As  Courtenay  walked  swiftly  away,  Muriel  said 
to  Nina:  "  I  sometimes  suspect  there's  a  good  deal 
of  man  in  that  fellow,  despite  his  cloth." 

"  Why,  we  really  are  getting  catholic-minded/" 
she  answered. 

"Thank  you!  By  the  way,  if  he'd  stayed  with 
that  sick  fellow,  he'd  have  had  to  take  as  much 
time  away  from  his  sermon  as  to  talk  with  me." 

"  Perhaps  he  considered  the  sick  fellow  a  worthier 
subject  than  he  did  you — or,  perhaps,  a  more  needy 
one.  Forgive  me;  I  didn't  mean  to  be  pert." 

"  Sure  ?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  did;  but  I  was  sorry  for  it  after- 
wards." 

"  All  right." 

After  they  had  walked  a  little  farther  she  said: 
"I'm  beginning  to  understand  you  a  little.  I  find 
you're  a  hypocrite." 

"Why,  what,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  preposter- 
ous, do  you  mean  ?  If  I  don't  profess  anything, 
how  can  any  of  my  professions  be  hypocritical  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  profess  a  great  deal." 

"  For  instance  ?" 

"  Well,  you  profess  to  be  very  savage." 

"  Well,  ain't  I  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  coming  out  here,  and 
talking  big  and  black  and  fierce  about  wanting 
that  poor  boy  to  die,  five  minutes  after  you've  been 


254        Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy. 

giving  his  mother  money  to  keep  him  alive  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  gave  her  money  ?" 

"I  heard  you  force  it  on  her.  You're  always 
forcing  something  on  somebody — money,  or  an 
opinion,  or — or  something." 

"  Hm!"  was  all  Muriel  had  to  say. 

"Well,"  she  resumed  after  a  moment,  "  haven't 
you  anything  to  say  for  your  conduct?" 

"I  don't  see  why  the  beggar  shouldn't  die.  I 
don't  see  why  the  doctor  shouldn't  put  him  out  of 
his  misery." 

"  Then  what  did  you  give  his  mother  the  money 
for  ?" 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  like  them  to  starve,  would 
you  ?" 

"  No;  but  you're  trying  to  make  out  that  you 
would." 

"  Oh  no.     I'm  not  as  bad  as  that." 

"Just  how  bad  are  you,  then  ?" 

"Well,  I  think  Nature  had  better  finish  him  up 
her  own  way,  since  she's  begun,  and  be  quick 
about  it.  She's  pretty  sure  to  make  a  botch  any- 
how; but  I'm  not  going  to  stand  by  and  let  her 
make  as  disgusting  a  botch  as  starvation  would  be. 
I  can  stop  that.  I  can't  stop  his  jim-jams,  though, 
or  I'd  tackle  them  too." 

"  Hm  !"  it  was  Nina's  turn  to  say  now. 

She  broke  the  silence  later,  as  if  in  the  midst  of 
a  train  of  thought,  with: 

"  And  yet  you  are  merciless  !" 

"  So  is  Nature,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  way. 
She's  always  killing  off  the  weak,  and  she  does  it 
painfully  and  cruelly.  I'm  a  mighty  sight  more 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.        255 

merciful  than  she  is.  I'd  chloroform  the  beggar 
decently  and  in  order,  if  I  had  my  way." 

"  And  yet  his  mother,  who  loves  him  more  than 
you  do,  would  not  let  you." 

"  That's  because  she's  a  fool — all  women  are, 
over  things  they  love." 

"  Perhaps  that's  not  a  misfortune  for  the  things," 
she  commented. 

"  It  is  in  this  case.  It  would  be  better  for  the 
boy  and  better  for  his  mother  if  it  were  all  o^er 
with.  She  can't  do  all  the  work  she  might,  because 
she  has  to  stay  home  with  him.  She  gets  only  half 
her  share  out  of  life,  and  he  gets  nothing  and  a 
good  deal  less." 

"  But  she  has  him,  and  caring  for  him  is  a  happi- 
ness to  her." 

"  Well,  I  beg  leave  to  doubt  it.  It's  not  natural 
that  it  should  be." 

"Yes,  it  is — to  a  mother." 

"Well,  a  mother  is  a  queer  institution.  If  I'd 
had  one,  I  suppose  she'd  have  spoiled  me  too, 
taking  care  of  me." 

"  I  suppose  nobody  was  ever  known  to  be  spoiled 
for  the  lack  of  a  mother  ?"  It  was  a  pity  that  the 
darkness  hid  the  expression  of  her  face. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  spoiled  ?" 

"  Awfully  near  it." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  how?"  These 
falls,  from  her,  did  not  daze  or  irritate  him  any 
more. 

"  Well,  one  thing,  in  your  having  so  little  sym- 
pathy with  feelings  not  your  own — in  feeling  so 
few  things." 


2  56        Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy. 

"Hm!  I  don't  care  to  feel  things  that  will 
knock  my  judgment  endways." 

"  But  I  suppose  that,  when  you  form  a  judgment, 
you  want  it  to  cover  everything  in  the  case  ?" 

"  Hulloa  !     That  sounds  like  Uncle  Grand." 

"  Well,  dorit  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to." 

"  Surely  so  consistent  and  catholic-minded  a 
person  must."" 

"  Don't  be  rough  on  a  fellow  !  Do  you  know 
you  kind  of  make  me  see  that  perhaps  in  this  thing 
I  didn't  give  weight  enough  to  the  mother  busi- 
ness ?" 

"  Now  that's  being  very  good,"  she  said  in  a  way 
that  was  like  a  caress.  "  Now  be  good  some  more, 
and  see  if  there  are  not  some  other  kinds  of  '  busi- 
ness '  that  you're  not  apt  to  give  enough  weight  to." 

"  All  sorts  of  feelings  and  sich,  I  suppose  you 
mean  ?" 

"  Yes,  other  people's." 

"  I  dunno."  He  had  unconsciously  tried  to  cover 
a  retreat  with  a  little  buffoonery  of  expression. 

"  Well,"  ejaculated  Nina,  amiably,  "  it's  some  im- 
provement to  say  that  you  don't  know." 

"  Thank  you.     I'm  glad  your  ferocity  is  going." 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  do  you  any  harm,"  she  said 
simply  and  seriously. 

After  a  little  silence  she  exclaimed: 

"  See  here,  I've  got  it !" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Mr.  Courtenay's  reason.  My  mind  has  been  fum 
bling  for  it,  ever  since  I  began  to  think  about  you." 
"  So  you  do  sometimes  think  about  me?" 


Gentle  Magic  and  Hard  Philosophy.        257 

"Yes;  but  don't  feel  flattered." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  got  ?" 

"  Why,  this.  You  say  our  hearts  were  made 
only  for  happy  feelings.  Now  pity,  sympathy, 
self-sacrifice  are  not  happy  feelings,  but  they  are 
all  great  things.  Where  would  they  be  if  there 
were  no  misery  in  the  world  ?" 

"  I've  often  heard  Uncle  Grand  talk  about  that," 
Muriel  interrupted. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  wouldn't  have  to 
find  out  near  so  many  things  for  myself  if  I  could 
always  talk  with  him  instead  of  wasting  my  time 
with  you.  But  that  woman's  misery  has  done  good 
even  in  your  case,  whether  my  troubles  with  you  do 
or  not.  The  best  thing  1  ever  saw  you  do,  was  to 
give  her  the  money  to-night.  And  it's  worth  all 
the  more,"  she  said  in  the  softest  tones  he  ever 
heard,  as  she  lightly  touched  his  arm  and  turned  a 
glowing  face  to  him  in  the  lamplight,  "  for  all  the 
big  black  talk  you  uttered  after  it.  Now,  how 
could  you  have  done  it,  in  face  of  your  horrid 
opinions  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  misery  there  ?" 

"I  don't  see  that  there  was  anything  in  it  to 
make  a  fuss  about,"  he  said. 

He  never  had  been  quite  so  pleased  in  his  life, 
but  he  showed  his  vanity  by  not  answering  her 
question,  even  though  he  nervously  deprecated  her 
compliment. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  answer  my  question  ?"  she 
persisted. 

"  I  give  it  up,"  he  said — about  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  been  wise  enough  to  "give  up"  anything. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A    BIT    OF    KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 

WOMAN'S  dependence  on  man's  strength  has  been 
hereditary  through  too  many  rude  generations,  to 
be  absent  from  any  of  the  present  "daughters  of 
Eve."  Some  women  love  men  learned,  many  love 
them  wise,  most  love  them  good,  but  all  love 
them  strong.  Yet  there  are  already  evolved  many 
modes  of  strength  besides  the  one  that  all  appre- 
ciate. 

Nina  was  now  thrown  frequently  with  three  men 
each  of  whom  she  found  more  interesting  in  his 
own  peculiar  way  than  she  had  ever  found  any  man 
outside  of  the  three.  On  their  parts:  Courtenayfelt 
that  he  loved  her;  Calmire,  though  he  had  lived  be- 
yond the  stage  of  love's  happy  illusions,  felt  himself, 
regarding  her,  capable  of  all  love's  realities;  and  as 
to  Muriel,  more  than  once  it  had  crossed  his  mind, 
that  here  was  the  first  young  woman  he  had  met 
who,  if  she  were  not  "hide-bound"  and  stubborn, 
might  be  capable  of  rising  to  a  comprehension  of 
the  deep  speculations  and  lofty  aspirations  of  even 
his  mighty  soul.  But  then  his  wife  was  to  com- 
bine the  grandeur  of  Juno  with  the  ethereality  of 
Psyche,  the  passion  of  Venus  with  the  purity  of 

258 


A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry.  259 

Diana,  the  simplicity  of  Cordelia  with  the  worldly 
tact  of  Beatrice;  she  was  to  be  learned  beyond  all 
the  philosophies,  and  yet  was  to  learn  everything 
from  him;  her  mere  glance  was  to  compel  his 
allegiance,  and  yet  her  chief  delight  was  to  be  in 
submitting  to  his  supernal  self:  in  short,  she  was 
to  be  everything  and  its  opposite  at  once.  Such  a 
creature,  and  such  an  one  only,  could  be  worthy 
the  fealty  of  Muriel  Catmire — as  he  conceived 
Muriel  Calmire.  But  lately,  when  he  had  dreamed 
of  loving  some  grand  creature  like  Semiramis,  he 
had  regretted  that  Miss  Wahring  was  but  five  feet 
four;  when  he  had  dreamed  that  his  love  would  be 
a  little  appealing  Psyche-like  darling  that  he  could 
carry  around  as  he  would  any  other  toy,  he  had  been 
sorry  that  this  woman  consisted  of  a  hundred  and 
forty  very  pretty  pounds;  when  his  reveries  ran  on 
dark-eyed  Eastern  houris,  he  had  begun  to  wish 
that  his  new  friend's  eyes  were  dark;  and  when, 
through  some  book,  he  had  felt  an  echo  of  the 
passion  that  sacrificed  so  many  men  to  Mary  of 
Scotland,  he  had  said  to  himself:  "Oh,  if  Nina's 
eyes,  too,  were  but  gray!"  Perhaps  he  was  not  in 
love  with  her.  But  it  is  a  portentous  circumstance 
for  one  of  the  few  youths  of  his  make,  to  draw  so 
many  and  so  serious  comparisons  between  a  special 
woman  and  his  all-embracing  desires. 

Nina,  for  her  part,  though  not  the  sort  of  a  girl 
who  is  always  speculating  on  the  feeling  toward 
herself  of  each  man  she  meets,  was  woman  enough 
to  have  in  her  sub-consciousness  a  set  of  feelings 
which,  so  far  as  they  went,  told  her  a  little  of  the 
attitudes  of  the  three  men.  But  her  intense  maiden- 


260  A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry. 

hood  prevented  her  examining  those  feelings  very 
closely.  They  told  her  enough,  however,  to  give 
her  a  faint  vague  perplexity  regarding  Muriel 
which  corresponded  with  his  own  self-contradic- 
tory condition.  Toward  Calmire,  her  feeling  was 
even  more  complex.  All  women  are  match-makers, 
and  she  had  heard  from  her  acquaintances  many  a 
speculation,  often  humorous,  as  to  who  would  be 
the  next  Mrs.  Calmire.  She  had  heard  his  name 
coupled  with  those  of  girls  as  young  as  herself, 
and  once  had  even  been  jestingly  advised  to  "set 
her  cap"  for  him.  This  was  very  repugnant  to 
her.  Though  she  had  plenty  of  common-sense,  she 
was  not  without  imagination,  and  she  was  young. 
Love  between  one  man  and  one  woman,  she  had 
rightly  placed  as  the  best  of  human  experiences; 
and  if  anything  human  was,  in  her  eyes,  worthy 
of  immortality,  of  course  that  love  was.  It  had 
not  yet  dawned  upon  her  that  even  her  ideas  of 
immortality  were,  on  the  whole,  incompatible  with 
the  conditions  of  hitman  love.  She  had  heard  the 
facile  disposition  of  the  case:  "  There  is  no  marry- 
ing or  giving  in  marriage  there;"  but  she  had  not 
coupled  with  it  any  real  conception  of  a  love  re- 
leased from  all  human  limitations  and  glorying  in 
all  conscious  being.  Of  course,  then,  like  all  young 
women  who  dream  the  dreams  she  dreamed,  and 
are  strangers  to  the  thoughts  she  was  stranger  to, 
she  found  the  idea  of  anybody  making  a  second 
marriage,  repugnant.  A  part  of  this  repugnance 
inevitably  drifted  in  between  her  and  Calmire. 
She  had  never  respected  or  admired  a  man  so 


A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry.  261 

much,  and  the  more  she  thus  regarded  him, — the 
more  she  felt  the  charm  of  his  gentleness  and 
strength  and  wisdom,  the  more  there  grew  in  her 
a  feeling,  of  which  she  was  but  half  conscious 
however,  that  all  her  high  ideals  of  love  de- 
manded that  her  interest  in  him  should  not  in- 
crease. The  attraction  and  repulsion  grew  together. 

But  toward  Courtenay,  her  feeling  was  the  most 
complex  of  all.  His  pathetic  beauty  as  he  lay, 
cruelly  marred  and  dead  perhaps,  by  her  hand, 
had  made  her  pity  for  him  an  actual  passion,  much 
of  which  was  self-reproach  and  sense  of  reparation 
due.  So  far  as  it  included  a  certain  responsibility 
to  him,  it  was  the  germ,  but  only  the  germ,  of  a 
feeling  responsive  to  his  own  wild  inspiration.  As 
yet,  he  had  said  no  direct  word  to  her,  but  she  felt 
that  he  loved  her.  This  gave  her  a  perplexing  dis- 
quietude. She  had  almost  a  notion  that  she 
ought  to  love  him,  and  she  did  not.  She  realized 
the  nobleness  of  his  life  and  aims,  she  felt  the  love- 
liness of  his  character.  Sometimes  she  contrasted 
his  self-denying,  careful,  gentle  life  with  Muriel's 
self-indulgence,  carelessness,  and  brusqueness;  but 
she  could  not  love  Courtenay — at  least  yet;  and 
she  could  not  hate  Muriel — yet,  at  least.  What 
was  stranger  still,  she  never  felt  toward  Courtenay 
that  emotion  that  women  so  love — as  if  she  could 
lean  upon  him.  When  she  thought  of  Muriel,  that 
feeling  was  sometimes  there.  But  when  she  thought 
of  Calmire,  the  feeling  was  always  there — as  much 
a  matter  of  course  as  the  solid  earth  beneath  her 
feet. 

This  is  not  saying  that  she  realized  all  this  herself 


262  A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry. 

or  gave  it  nearly  as  much  thought  as  is  needed 
to  convey  it.  In  complex  cases,  when  action  is  de- 
manded, how  many  of  the  dormant  feelings  that 
spring  up  and  impel  us,  have  we  ever  clearly  com- 
prehended before?  How  much  better  our  friends 
often  know  their  existence  in  us  than  we  do  our- 
selves ! 

It  was  some  time  before  the  sharp  summons  of 
circumstances  brought  Nina's  real  feelings  to  her 
knowledge,  but  of  course  events  kept  adding  defi- 
niteness  in  one  way  or  another.  One  such  event 
came  a  few  days  after  the  visit  to  the  sick  boy,  as 
she  and  Muriel  were  walking,  at  sunset,  some  dis- 
tance from  the  house  at  Fleuvemont.  They  were 
talking  about  Courtenay's  work  and  Muriel's — 
well,  his  not-work. 

"You've  pitched  into  me  for  laziness  before," 
said  he.  "  Now  as  I  said  then,  I  don't  believe  I'm 
altogether  lazy.  I  work  like  the  Prince  of  Dark- 
ness (since  you  won't  let  me  name  my  old  friend 
the  Devil),  at  anything  I  care  for." 

"Then  you  don't  care  for  other  people,  I  sus- 
pect," said  Nina. 

"  No,  not  for  many  of  them.  And  now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  fellows 
I've  known  who've  gone  in  for  charity  and  all  that, 
have  most  of  them  been  rather  slow." 

"  Haven't  driven  four-in-hand,  you  mean." 

"  No,  not  altogether  that,  but  haven't  gone  in 
for  the  things  a  fellow  ought  to  go  in  for." 

"  Such  as  ?" 

"Well,  say  boating  and  tennis  and  riding,  and. 
music  and  society  if  you  will," 


A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry.  263 

"Unluckily  for  me,"  said  Nina,  "  Mr.  Courtenay 
goes  in  for  boating;  and  he  certainly  goes  in  for 
charities.  And  I  think  I've  heard  that  he  is  a  good 
tennis-player.  Isn't  he  a  musician  too?" 

"  Yes,  something  of  one." 

"  Why  don't  you  like  him  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"  I  do  like  him,  or  at  least  I  try  to." 

"Why  do  you  have  to  try  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  trust  him,"  said  Muriel,  and 
Nina  had  a  queer  feeling  as  of  recognition.  Yet 
she  exclaimed : 

"Don't  trust  him?     Why,  what  can  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  don't  trust  him  to  look  at  things 
squarely.  I  mean  that  I  feel,  when  I'm  talking 
with  him,  that  he'll  not  take  a  fact  for  what  it's 
worth  compared  with  other  facts,  but  that  he's 
always  weighing  it  in  the  medium  of  his  dogmas 
instead  of  in  the  true  air." 

"  Yes,  but  some  things  will  float  on  water  that 
won't  float  on  air.  His  dogmas  sustain  a  good 
deal  that  would  fall  to  the  ground  without  them." 

'•  I  doubt  that.  The  real  work  is  done  by  some- 
thing older  and  broader  than  his  dogmas — some- 
thing that  they're  simply  tacked  on  to." 

"Well!  It's  all  awfully  puzzling  to  me!"  ex- 
claimed the  girl.  "  Sometimes  I  think  reason  is  on 
your  side,  and  then  when  I  look  at  your  life  and 
his,  it  seems  to  me,  you  must  excuse  my  saying, 
that  facts  are  on  his  side." 

"  You  mean  his  doing  so  much  good  and  my 
doing  so  little!" 

"Yes,  if  it  must  be  put  in  that  way." 

"Well,  I  guess  he'd  do  good  anyhow,  no  matter 


264  A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry. 

what  he  believed;  and  very  likely  I  wouldn't,  no 
matter  what  I  believed.  But  a  good  many  fellows 
who  believe  as  I  do,  do  do  lots  of  good;  and  a  good 
many  fellows  who  believe  as  he  does,  don't.  If 
you'll  just  look — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  woman's  scream  from 
beyond  a  clump  of  bushes  near  by.  He  rushed 
through  them.  There  he  saw  one  of  the  maids 
from  the  house,  holding  on  with  one  arm  to  a  sap- 
ling, and  shrinking  from  a  man  who  stood  before 
her  with  his  arms  folded.  He  was  not  a  specially 
brutal-looking  fellow,  but  had  a  mean,  cruel  face. 

"What's  this  about?"  said  Muriel. 

"  It's  my  husband,  sir,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Oh  yes,  you're  Annie.     I've  heard  about  it." 

"  Yes,  sir.  He's  trying  to  make  me  go  back  with 
him,  sir." 

"  What  made  you  scream  ?" 

The  woman  did  not  answer. 

Nina,  who  had  followed  through  the  bushes,  saw 
a  slight  shiver  go  through  Muriel  and  his  hands 
contract  like  claws,  as  he  jerked  his  head  toward 
the  man. 

"Did  you  strike  her?" 

"  None  of  your  business." 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  business.  She's  a  woman,  and  I 
heard  her  scream." 

As  Nina  watched  Muriel,  he  seemed  fairly  to  ex- 
pand before  her  eyes,  into  something  portentous 
and  baleful. 

The  man  answered:  "She's  my  wife  and  I'll  do 
what  I  please  with  her,"  and  he  reached  out  his 
hand  and  took  a  step  toward  her.  She  gave  a 
little  cry  and  started  back. 


A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry.  265 

"  Stop!"  roared  Muriel.  There  is  no  other  word 
to  describe  it.  But  his  aspect  was  more  terrifying 
than  his  voice:  that,  indeed,  at  once  fell  to  its 
ordinary  volume.  "  Now  listen  to  me,"  he  said  in 
tones  that  seemed  made  of  steel,  and  he  seemed 
made  of  steel  himself  as  he  stood  rigid  and  immense. 
Nothing  stirred  about  him  but  his  deep  chest,  and 
his  tense  fingers  strained  apart  and  grasping  slowly 
and  separately  to  and  fro.  His  face  was  pale  with 
a  tinge  of  livid  green,  his  deep  eyes  took  that  hor- 
rible merciless  look  of  a  creature  watching  its  prey, 
only  that  their  beauty  and  intelligence  made  them 
just  that  much  more  fearful. 

At  Muriel's  order,  the  man  had  dropped  his  hands 
like  a  soldier  at  the  word  of  command,  and  stood 
facing  him.  He  spoke  again  in  tones  whose  delib- 
erate calm  was  grim  beside  the  awful  aspect  of  his 
rage: 

"  Now  listen  to  me.  Whatever  your  rights  over 
that  woman  may  be,  you  have  no  right  to  abuse 
her.  If  you  touch  her,  I'll  kill  you.  I  mean  ex- 
actly what  I  say." 

He  had  no  weapon,  but  as  Nina  saw  and  heard 
him,  she  no  more  doubted  that  he  would  kill  the 
man  than  she  doubted  his  presence  before  her. 
She  felt  herself  strained  up  with  part  of  his 
strength.  Even  her  sex's  fear  was  banished  from 
her.  She  simply  waited  to  see  what  was  to  be  the 
next  irresistible  movement  of  this  awful  power. 

A  man  may  be  coward  enough  to  frighten  a 
woman,  and  yet  have  a  half-stupid  stubbornness 
that  keeps  him  up  until  the  actual  contact  with 
danger.  Such  a  man  faced  Muriel.  He  even  had 


266  A  Bit  of  Knight-errantry. 

some  blundering  notion  that  his  rights  were  being 
invaded.  There  was  no  more  thought  of  fight  in 
him  than  if  he  had  stood  before  a  tornado,  and  yet 
he  put  on  a  cheap  bold  front,  and  repeated  after  a 
few  moments'  pause:  "She's  my  wife,  and  I'll  do 
what  I  please  with  her.  Who  are  you  ?" 

"  It's  no  matter  who  I  am.  Touch  her,  and  I'll 
kill  you." 

The  man  knew  that  he  would,  and  turned  away. 

"  Go  to  the  house,  Annie,"  said  Muriel,  "  and  I 
will  follow  you." 

Then  he  turned  to  Nina,  but  could  not  smile:  his 
rage  so  possessed  him  through  and  through.  He 
said: 

"  Let  us  go  back." 

He  was  breathing  deeply  and  rapidly,  almost 
with  great  sighs.  This  too  he  could  not  control,  or 
did  not  seem  to  care  to  try. 

Before  they  had  gone  many  steps  he  stumbled. 
The  strain  had  used  up  his  strength.  Then  he 
was  able  to  laugh,  and  he  said  to  Nina  : 

"It's  too  bad  to  have  to  put  you  through  such  a 
scene." 

"  You  are  something  terrible,"  said  the  girl. 

And  so  one  step  more  had  been  made  toward 
definiteness  in  her  relations  with  the  three  men. 
She  was  afraid  of  Muriel  Calmire,  and  he  was  the 
first  thing  that  she  ever  had  been  afraid  of.  But 
she  feared  him  as  one  fears  Nature's  forces:  under 
such  fear,  is  reliance  absolute. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IN    THE    SAME    BOAT. 

LIFE  at  Fleuvemont  continued  during  September 
in  about  the  simple  courses  already  indicated. 

The  ladies  ran  off  for  two  little  visits,  once  to  a 
certain  nook  in  the  Adirondacks,  and  once  to  Lenox. 
The  first  time,  Muriel  was  so  lonely  and  ill-natured 
that  Calmire,  following  an  instinct  of  earlier  years, 
went  off  to  Saratoga  for  a  couple  of  days  and  took 
Muriel  with  him:  the  next  time  the  ladies  went  off, 
Muriel,  forewarned,  made  arrangements  to  travel 
on  some  devices  of  his  own,  and  after  he  got 
started,  felt  almost  as  much  at  a  loss  without  his 
Fleuvemont  life,  as  he  had  felt  with  it  when  the 
ladies  were  away  before. 

Moreover  during  September,  as  some  people 
were  driven  toward  town  from  their  more  remote 
summer  fastnesses,  a  few  visitors  had  been  drawn 
to  Fleuvemont  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time.  They  were 
principally  lone  men  whom  Calmire  compassionated 
for  a  Sunday;  and  more  than  one  of  them,  as  well  as 
some  others  at  neighborhood  gatherings,  aroused 
in  Muriel,  as  Courtenay  had,  regarding  Nina,  that 
congenital  jealousyuniversal  in  strong  young  males, 
or  possibly  some  jealousy  a  little  more  special. 

October  had  come,  and  one  warm  night,  as  the 

267 


268  In  the  Same  Boat. 

four  at  Fleuvemont  were  seated  on  the  piazza 
silently  watching  the  twilight  and  the  clear  moon, 
Muriel  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"What  a  night  for  October  !  Come,  Miss  Nina, 
let's  go  on  the  river." 

"  Delightful!"  exclaimed  Nina,  rising. 

"  I  think  best  not,"  said  Mrs.  Wahring. 

"  It's  perfectly  safe  in  a  rowboat,"  said  Calmire, 
rising  too. 

"  I — I'm  afraid  of  the  night  air  for  Nina,"  rejoined 
the  lady. 

"  Well,"  said  Calmire,  "let's  at  least  walk  around 
the  piazza  and  see  if  the  sky  is  not  as  beautiful  on 
the  other  side,"  and  he  offered  her  his  arm. 

The  young  people  did  not  follow.  As  soon  as 
they  were  left  out  of  earshot,  Calmire  said: 

"  Why  don't  you  let  her  go  ?" 

"  What  !  alone  with  that  young  pirate  ?" 

"Certainly.  Under  any  ordinary  circumstances 
I'd  trust  any  real  good  girl  with  him  as  I'd  trust 
her  with  her  mother.  Let  them  go.  We  were 
young  once!" 

"Yes,  that's  just  the  trouble." 

"That  we  were  ?" 

"  That  they  are." 

'  It's  no  question  of  convention  here,"  he  remon- 
strated. "  Why,  they're  almost  cousins,  as  we 
were  when  we  went  rowing,  let  me  see,  twenty- 
eight  years  ago  this  month.  It  didn't  hurt  either 
of  us  much." 

"  Didn't  it?"  said  she,  affecting  a  sigh  and  plac- 
ing one  hand  over  the  left  side  of  her  matronly 
bosom, 


Tn  the  Same  Boat.  269 

"You  Sapphira!  you  were  engaged  to  Wahring 
at  the  time!" 

"  But  you  didn't  know  it !" 

"  Didtit  I  ?  But  didn't  you  enjoy  yourself,  even 
if  Wahring  was  in  China?" 

"  Well,  to  be  candid,  perhaps  I  did." 

"'To  be  candid,  perhaps'!  So  did  I.  Well, 
give  your  daughter  a  good  time  too." 

"Ah,  but  your  nephew  is  not  you." 

"No,  he's  certainly  better  fitted  to  give  the  girl 
a  pleasant  hour  to  remember  than  I  am  now." 

"Your  modesty,  like  other  diseases  coming  late 
in  life,  is  positively  incurable.  I  know  she  enjoys 
your  society  more  than  his." 

"  So  did  you  Wahring's  more  than  mine.  Yet 
you  had  a  good  time." 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  had  deliberated  the 
shot  or  not,  but  he  felt  that  in  comparing  his  own 
relation  with  the  girl,  to  Wahring's  with  his  fiancee, 
the  shot  was  a  good  one.  It  told,  and  as  they 
neared  the  young  people,  Mrs.  Wahring  said  so 
they  could  hear: 

"Certainly  there  are  few  nights  like  this." 

"Too  few  to  miss,"  responded  Muriel.  "Miss 
Nina's  not  afraid  to  go  if  you'll  consent.  I'll  take 
good  care  of  her." 

"  The  night  is  milder  than  I  thought.     She  may 

go-" 

The  two  were  soon  in  the  boat.  After  the  usual 
chat  on  surrounding  objects  and  the  incidents  at- 
tending their  start,  they  settled  into  a  not  uncon- 
genial silence,  both  gradually  yielding  to  the  medi- 


270  In  the  Same  Boat. 

tative  influences  of  the  scene.  At  last  Nina  broke 
it  by  humming  a  little  song  to  the  rhythm  of 
his  oars,  he  improvising  a  florid  and  sometimes 
burlesque  accompaniment.  At  last  he  got  so 
boisterous  with  harmonious  growls  and  explosions 
that  they  both  stopped  for  laughing,  and  soon 
grew  silent  and  meditative  again.  After  a  while, 
she  said: 

"The  night  is  no  longer  restful  to  me.  You 
have  been  too  busy  all  Summer  filling  it  with 
questions." 

"And  you're  disposed  to  feel  unkindly  toward 
me  for  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to.  I've  heard  you  and 
your  uncle  say  a  thousand  times  that  one  should 
trust  truth,  no  matter  where  it  leads.  But  what 
you've  given  me,  so  far,  seems  to  lead  nowhere," 
and  her  tone  was  sad. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  you're  talking  in 
the  commercial  wav.  One  should  not  weigh  con- 
sequences. Truth  for  its  own  sake  is  the  thing,  I 
suppose:  only  that's  a  sort  of  truism.  What  it 
really  means  must  be  that  we  can  trust  truth  to 
lead  rightly  whether  we  see  the  way  or  not." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that!"  she  responded,  again 
sadly.     "I  don't  find  the  leadings  very  pleasant." 
•   "  But,  Miss  Nina,  you  don't  mean — ' 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  interrupted,  and  went  on  pas- 
sionately :  "  I  mean  that  all  this  Summer,  the  whole 
world  I  used  to  stand  on  has  been  crumbling  under 
my  feet;  I  mean  that  the  beliefs,  hopes,  fears,  if  you 
will,  that  shaped  my  former  life,  are  nearly  all  gone, 
and  those  of  them  that  I  still  hold,  I  find  I  used  to 


Tn  the  Same  Boat.  27  r 

hold  for  wrong  reasons.  I  find  that  most  of  what 
has  been  taught  me,  was  taught  by  ignorance  and 
often  by  virtual  dishonesty.  Those  who  taught 
me,  thought  it  better  to  give  a  wrong  argument  for 
a  right  opinion,  than  to  give  none  at  all.  You 
can't  tell  what  realizing  all  this  means  to  me,  be- 
cause to  you  it  came  more  gradually,  and  half  of  it 
came  without  trampling  to  death  anything  you 
held  dear  before.  But  my  old  beliefs  were  old 
friends,  almost  old  parents;  I  had  taken  them  so 
much  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  I  did  not  know 
what  they  had  been  to  me,  until  they  began  to  dis- 
appear, and  here  I  see  them  destroyed,  and  so  little 
left  me  in  their  place  !  I  feel  deserted,  unsup- 
ported, alone  !  I'm  very  wretched,  Mr.  Calmire,  if 
you  can  understand  that,  when  every  doubt  of  your 
own  seems  only  a  pillar  for  your  pride.  My  pillars 
are  all  fallen,  and  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  the  life 
were  being  crushed  out  of  me." 

Had  a  meteor  fallen  into  the  boat,  the  boy  could 
not  have  been  more  astonished. 

"Why,  you  astound  me,  Miss  Nina.  I  knew  that 
you  were  getting  more  patient  with  us,  but  I  did 
not  know  that  you  were  becoming  one  of  us." 

"  I'm  not  one  of  you!  You're  contented  and  even 
conceited,  if  you'll  pardon  my  saying  so,  in  your 
position,  and  I'm  simply  wretched  and  very  humble 
— how  humble,  my  talking  to  you  in  this  way, 
ought  to  help  you  imagine." 

Now,  among  the  virtues  which  Mr.  Muriel  Cal- 
mire intended  to  practice  some  day — when  he 
should  become  old  and  superior  to  temptation, 
that  is  to  say  when  he  should  have  had  all  the 


272  In  the  Same  Boat. 

pleasure  that  the  exercise  of  such  virtues  might 
interfere  with,  he  had  lately  begun  to  include  hu- 
mility and  candor  in  acknowledging  defeat.  There 
were  very  few  pretty  things  that  appealed  to  his 
aesthetic  sense  in  vain,  and  these  pretty  virtues,  with 
several  others  entirely  too  beautiful  for  daily  use, 
had  already  several  times  (especially  in  novels) 
been  honored  by  his  passing  admiration.  But  they 
had  never  appealed  to  him  with  anything  like 
the  same  vigor  that  they  did  when  manifested  in 
the  proud  and,  as  it  happened,  beautiful  creature 
now  before  him — a  person  whose  whole  association 
with  him  seemed  to  be  a  constant  demand  for  just 
such  concessions  from  him  as  she  was  now  astound- 
ing him  by  making  herself.  The  boy's  first  emotion 
was  triumph,  and  it  had  almost  taken  possession 
of  his  tongue,  when  there  came  rushing  over  him  a 
flood  of  sympathy  and  contrition  such  as  he  had 
never  known.  The  conflict  of  feelings  started  him 
into  a  hysterical  laugh,  through  which  he  jerked 
out  the  consolatory  observation:  "  Why,  Miss  Nina, 
I — I  didn't  suppose  it  could  make  such  a  dif- 
ference." 

But  the  girl  understood  his  feeling,  and  was 
better  satisfied  to  go  on: 

"  I've  thought  and  thought  and  thought,  and 
for  my  soul's  sake,  I  can't  escape  seeing  that  if  half 
you  and  Mr.  Calmire  say,  is  true;  and  if  one  de- 
pends on  reason  alone  without  Faith,  Christ's 
divinity,  a  personal  God,  and  immortality  itself  are 
all  dogma.  There's  no  good  proof  for  any  of  them. 
The  moral  law  is,  I  suppose,  after  all  the  main 
thing:  but  with  Christ  and  God  and  Immortality 


In  the  Same  Boat.  273 

gone,  I  don't  see  why  people  believe  in  that.  Do 
you  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  do.  But  before  I  tell  you,  I 
want  to  stick  a  pin  or  two.  I  don't  see  that 
Christ's  'gone,'  as  you  call  it.  I  suspect  he's  a  his- 
toric fact  that  you  can't  get  around;  and  as  to  God: 
there's  certainly  something  running  the  machine 
and  keeping  it  in  some  sort  of  order;  and  as  to  im- 
mortality: well,  we  don't  know  so  much  about  that. 
But  this  is  pretty  considerable  of  a  universe,  and 
we  have  a  pretty  significant  share  in  it,  whether 
we're  immortal  or  not;  and  either  way,  we  ought 
to  behave  ourselves  just  as  we  should  if  we  were,  I 
suppose:  only  it's  such  a  bore  to  do  so.  But  upon 
my  soul,  as  you  sit  there,  you  look  as  if  you  ought 
to  be  immortal,  whether  you  are  or  not." 

"  Thanks,  very  much!"  answered  the  lady.  "  But 
suppose  you  take  the  trouble  to  keep  serious  a 
little  longer.  There's  something  better  than  com- 
pliments to  be  had  out  of  you — occasionally.  Now, 
about  behaving  ourselves,  I  no  longer  know 
if  right  is  right,  or  wrong  is  wrong,  or  if  each  is  not 
the  other.  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  could  be  wicked. 
But  I  won't." 

"Well,  why  won't  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Why  won't  Mr.  Calmire  ? 
He  believes  none  of  the  things  I  used  to.  Why 
won't  you,  if  you  can  help  it?  For  I  wouldn't  be 
talking  to  you  as  I'm  talking  now,if  I  had  not  seen 
that  in  your  way  you  do  sometimes  try  to  do  what 
is  right." 

"  I  do  try,  Miss  Nina,  in  some  things.  But  I  like 
to  have  a  good  time  too." 


2  74  In  the  Same  Boat. 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that,  but  at  bottom  you're  true. 
What  makes  you  so?  You're  not  so  from  love  of 
God,  or  from  love  of  anything  else  I  can  see,  but 
your  precious  self,  except,  of  course,  your  uncle." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  true,  Miss  Nina?" 

"Haven't  I  said  it?  Would  I  have  said  any  of 
these  things  to  you  if  I  didn't  believe  that  ?" 

"  Well  then,  why  have  you  always  been  so  down 
on  me?" 

"  Because  you're  so  seldom  just  to  yourself.  You 
have  a  great,  deep  soul,  and  yet  you  lead  a  shallow, 
empty  life.  You  are  really  that  earnest,  thought- 
ful man  you  appeared  to  be  the  first  moment  I  saw 
you ;  and  yet  you  have  no  aims,  and  you  never  work 
at  anything:  all  the  deep  things  you've  told  me, 
you  either  studied  because  you  had  to,  or  '  picked 
up,'  as  you  say, — largely  because  you  happen  to 
have  an  uncle  who  drops  them;  but  your  life,  as 
you've  candidly  described  it  to  me,  has  been  mainly 
one  of  idleness  and  dissipation." 

"  But  I  never  expected  to  keep  up  those  things: 
a  fellow  must  sow  his  wild  oats,  but  sometimes  I 
do  '  keep  up  a  devil  of  a  thinking.'  " 

"Mr. — "  she  began  remonstrantly. 

"Quotation-marks!  quotation-marks!"  he  cried, 
dropping  his  oars  and  holding  up  both  hands. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can't  understand  you  men,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "You're  weak  creatures  at  best." 

"  Is  my  Uncle  Legrand  a  weak  creature  ?" 

"  He's  had  much  practice  in  being  strong,"  she  an- 
swered; yet  she  pondered  a  little  over  some  things 
she  had  seen  in  him.  After  a  pause,  she  continued: 

"  But  I  never  can  keep  you  to  anything.     I  want 


In  the  Same  Boat,  275 

you  to  talk  to  me.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how, 
without  any  God,  you  and  Mr.  Calmire  have  any 
notion  of  right  and  wrong." 

"Mr.  Calmire  won't  admit  that  he  has  no  God," 
said  Muriel,  "and  I  don't  know  that  I  will,  but  I 
haven't  much  of  an  opinion  of  mine." 

"  I  did  Mr.  Calmire  injustice,"  she  said.  "  But  I 
can  hardly  think  of  any  God  unlike  my  own.  But 
go  on  and  tell  me  how  it  is  that  you  have  a  right 
and  wrong." 

He  had  resumed  rowing,  but  he  stopped  againj 
as  he  did  afterwards  whenever  he  got  specially 
interested. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  we  have  all  the  experience 
of  mankind  at  our  backs  pronouncing  certain  things 
right  and  certain  others  wrong.  The  religions 
don't  really  do  anything  more  than  pick  up  this 
experience  and  enforce  it.  Of  course  you're  not 
so  blind  as  to  attribute  all  morality  to  Christianity. 
Men  can't  work  together,  at  least  in  fine  work, 
without  being  able  to  rely  on  each  other.  Slavery 
alone  could  build  the  pyramids,  perhaps,  but  it 
couldn't  build  the  Parthenon  and  the  Taj.  There 
were  morals  behind  those  two,  and  behind  the 
pyramids  also,  I've  no  doubt:  certainly  there  were 
religions.  Now  religions  all  agree  pretty  well  on 
fundamentals,  allowing  for  different  degrees  of 
civilization  of  course." 

"  But  you  don't  admit  any  religion  to  be  super- 
natural, and  what  you  say  only  proves  all  that 
splendid  morality  to  be  human;  and,  after  all,  the 
heart  cries  out  for  something  more  than  the  narrow 
facts  of  our  little  lives." 


276  In  the  Same  Boat. 

"  Unquestionably.  And  it's  a  very  good  heart  for 
doing  so.  Else  we  should  not  have  any  'splendid 
morality,' but  should  be  still  among  the  'narrow 
facts'  in  the  'little  lives'  of  anthropoid  apes.  All 
progress  lies  in  that  cry.  The  morality  is  here 
though,  and  we  are  not  leading  the  lives  of  the 
anthropoid  apes." 

"  But  the  enforcing  of  the  morals  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed, "the  making  men  live  up  to  them?" 

"Well,  I  haven't  seen  that  religion  has  much  to 
do  with  that,"  he  replied.  "  I'd  trust  the  agnostics 
of  my  acquaintance  to  observe  them  just  as  far  as 
I  would  trust  the  Christians,  and  so  would  you." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  I  would,"  she  admitted.  "  But 
why  does  anybody  live  up  to  them  ?  Why,  I've  heard 
one  of  the  best  women  I  know,  say  that  if  she 
didn't  believe  in  a  hereafter,  she  wouldn't  hesitate 
at  any  crime.  She  even  said  that — that  she  might 
run  away  from  her  husband." 

Muriel  laughed  and  said:  "  I  heard  Uncle  Grand 
talking  about  something  like  that  the  other  day. 
He  said  that  he'd  often  heard  such  remarks  from 
such  people,  and  that  they  simply  hadn't  thought 
about  what  they  were  saying.  Either  your  friend 
was  mistaken  in  her  own  view  of  how  she  would  act, 
or  you  are  mistaken  in  calling  her  a  good  woman. 
Do  you  believe  she  really  would  do  anything  dis- 
graceful ?" 

Now  it  was  Nina's  turn  to  laugh,  and  she  said: 
"No!  She  couldn't  if  she  tried,  and  wild  horses 
couldn't  drag  her  away  from  her  husband." 

"Probably  she  spoke  of  that,  just  because  it  was 
the  most  extreme  idea  that  could  enter  her  head," 
said  Muriel. 


In  the  Same  Boat.  277 

"But,"  insisted  Nina,  "why  does  any  person 
keep  good  without  a  religious  faith — if  any  person 
does?" 

"Without  a  dogmatic  faith,  you  mean  !  Mainly 
from  force  of  habit— a  habit  of  sympathy  with 
mankind  and  enthusiasm  for  justice,  that  has  beer- 
accumulating  through  all  the  generations.  Any- 
body inherits  his  share  of  it,  and  the  whole  gath- 
ered drift  of  it  surrounds  him  and  bears  him  on 
with  it." 

"  But  what  started  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"First  love,  then  family  affection,  then  friendship, 
then  the  realization,  more  or  less  distinct,  that  the 
greatest  good  of  each  man  is  in  the  greatest  good 
of  the  greatest  number  of  men.  This  has  been 
lived  up  to  with  more  or  less  directness,  but  always 
with  increasing  directness,  until  now  it  is  distinctly 
realized  as  a  rule  of  conduct.  What  did  I  read  to 
you  long  ago  on  the  piazza  ?" 

"  But  what  is  good  ?"  she  demanded.  "  There 
comes  in  just  my  trouble." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "  the  dogmatic  meanings  are 
confused  with  the  practical  ones.  You've  been 
told  that  only  that  is  '  good '  which  is  pleasing  in 
the  sight  of  God,  and  even  that  if  you  act  from 
any  less  motive  than  '  love  of  God,'  you  are  not 
'good,'  though  the  same  teachers  tell  you  that  you 
are  good  if  you  act  from  love  of  your  neighbor, 
and  the  best-known  teacher  of  them  all  makes  the 
test  of  love  for  your  neighbor,  that  you  shall  love 
him  as  yourself — he  seems  even  to  have  tacitly  ad- 
mitted that  there  can  be  'good'  in  loving  one's 
self,  up  at  least  to  the  degree  where  one  can  love 
one's  neighbor  too," 


278  In  the  Same  Boat. 

"  A  Christian  policy  which  most  of  us  are  entitled 
to  the  credit  of  following !"  she  quietly  observed. 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed,  "  because  it's  common  sense, 
not  because  it's  Christianity.  But  don't  go  to  iron- 
ing me  now..  You  interrupt  the  lecture.  Where 
was  I  ?" 

"You're  very  good  and  amiable  to-night,"  she 
said. 

"  You've  made  me  so,"  he  replied,  "  and  yet  I'm 
not  'good '  for  love  of  God  or  even  love  of  myself. 
Yet,  you  call  me  '  good  '  all  the  same.  Now,  don't 
you  see  distinctly  that  you  applied  that  word  to 
my  actions  because  you  are  amiable  enough  to  de- 
rive satisfaction  from  my  humble  exposition — in 
other  words,  you  call  me  'good'  because  I'm  giv- 
ing you  pleasure  ?" 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  I  say  you're  good  because 
you  act  in  a  way  agreeable  to  me." 

"  Well,  now,  Miss  Nina,  here  is  the  centre  of  the 
whole  subject,  and  you  must  ponder  it  carefully, 
because  it  won't  be  clear  to  you  at  once,  or  before 
you've  gone  over  it  many  times.  I  defy  you  to  find 
a  definition  of  '  good  '  implied  in  any  religion  or  sys- 
tem of  morals,  that  doesn't  depend  upon  the  idea  of 
increasing  happiness  for  somebody.  No  man  ever 
had  any  idea  of  good,  but  happiness.  '  Good  for 
goodness' sake,'  like  '  truth  for  truth's  sake,' '  beauty 
for  beauty's  sake,'  and  all  that  run  of  cheap  phrases 
really  means  nothing — the  repetition  of  a  word  is 
no  explanation  of  it.  Actually,  the  most  abstract 
motive  to  good  conduct  ever  urged,  is  to  please 
God — to  add  to  his  happiness — a  motive  in  the 
right  direction  by  the  way,  because  it  is  away 


In  the  Same  Boat.  279 

from  selfishness.  The  same  is  true,  in  being  good 
to  your  neighbor.  But  even  the  ascetic,  whether 
St.  Simeon  on  his  pillar,  or  the  Hindoo  under  the 
car  of  Juggernaut,  is  simply  being  good  to  himself 
— increasing  the  sum  total  of  his  own  happiness, 
(at  least  he  supposes  so,)  by  throwing  away  a  lot  of 
happiness  here  to  get  a  great  deal  more  hereafter." 

"  Why,  this  is  all  very  strange  to  me,  Mr.  Mu- 
riel. I  always  supposed  that  the  grand  thing  was 
to  despise  happiness." 

"  That's  all  cant.  Take  till  we  next  meet," 
(What  did  he  know  of  when  they  would  next  meet  ?) 
"  to  see  if  you  can  think  up  a  good  act  that  doesn't 
tend  to  increase  the  amount  of  happiness  in  the 
universe — somewhere,  some  time;  or  a  bad  act  that 
doesn't  tend  to  diminish  it.  And  conversely,  try  to 
think  of  any  act  that  would  add  to  the  happiness 
in  the  universe  (including  that  of  God  and  angels 
if  you  want  to  bring  them  in),  and  see  if  it's  not  a 
good  act;  and  think  of  any  act  that  would  tend  to 
diminish  the  aggregate  happiness,  and  see  if  it's 
not  a  bad  act." 

"  There  does  seem  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say," 
Nina  admitted.  "  But  why,  then,  should  not  a  man 
devote  himself  entirely  to  his  own  happiness?" 

"Because,"  answered  Muriel,  with  the  superi- 
ority of  philosophy  to  practice  so  frequent  in 
youth — and  after,  "for  one  reason,  the  veriest  ig- 
noramus knows  that  that's  not  the  way  to  get 
it.  Happiness  is  a  faint  star  that  one  sees  quicker 
by  glancing  at  the  brighter  one  of  duty  which 
lies  near  it.  Guess  somebody  must  have  said  that 
before!" 


2 So  In  the  Same  Boat. 

"Why,  Mr.  Muriel,  is  this  you?  A  month  ago 
you  would  have  quietly  appropriated  it  to  your- 
self !" 

"  Perhaps !  I  don't  know.  I  like  to  be  strictly 
true  with  you.  Well,  here's  another  new  develop- 
ment. Somehow  it  no  longer  seems  to  me  a  mere 
abstraction  of  the  text-books  that  selfishness  does 
not  bring  happiness,  even  to  the  selfish  individual. 
Yes!  I  have  been  changing!  I  think  I  see  for  my- 
self now  why  working  for  the  greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number  is,  in  the  long-run,  the  surest  means 
of  each  individual  securing  his  own  good.  Such  is 
the  law  under  which  we  live,  and  all  moralists  have 
caught  glimpses  of  it,  more  or  less  distinct." 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  she  meditated.  "But  how  are 
we  to  judge  when  duties  are  in  conflict?" 

"Just  as  we  judge  which  oar  to  use  in  pulling 
the  boat  around — by  experience,  which  of  course 
includes  teaching  from  previous  experience." 

"  But  it's  so  much  harder  in  moral  questions," 
she  objected. 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  he  said.  "  The  difficulty  of 
navigation  is  no  argument  against  the  use  of  such 
methods  as  we  have.  You  don't  pretend  that  re- 
ligion is  an  infallible  help  ?  Look  at  the  Inqui- 
sition, witch-burning,  and  stewed  Quaker.  In 
fact,  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  religion  is  a  fearful 
misleader." 

"  But  in  pulling  the  boat  around,"  objected  Nina, 
"  there's  no  selfish  element  to  fight  against.  There 
is  in  moral  questions." 

"  There's  a  selfish  element  in  most  questions," 
answered  Muriel,  "  even  in  pulling  the  boat  around. 
You  see  that  splendid  constellation  right  by  those 


In  the  Same  Boat.  28  r 

clouds  over  the  western  hills  ?  Now,  I  can  pull  this 
boat  around  so  as  to  bring  you  face  to  face  with  it, 
or  so  as  to  bring  myself  face  to  face  with  it.  I'm 
going  to  resist  the  bias  of  self,  and  bring  you  face 
to  face  with  it,  for  I'm  going  to  turn  now.  I  haven't 
rowed  very  far  while  this  trivial  conversation  has 
been  going  on:  for  a  fellow  can't  talk  fit  for  any- 
thing with  all  his  blood  in  his  muscles.  But  it's  time 
to  go  back,  nevertheless.  I'll  farther  unfold  the 
mysteries  of  our  moral  nature,  on  the  way  home." 

"  First  let  me  tell  you,"  said  Nina,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  back  water  with  his  port  oar  and  to  put 
a  little  extra  strength  into  his  starboard,  "  that  I 
do  think  there  seems  some  ground  to  stand  on  in 
what  you've  been  telling  me.  I  feel  better  for  it. 
But  I  don't  half  like  your  speaking  in  a  sportive 
way  of  such  things,  as  you  just  did." 

"  Well,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  proceeded,  as 
he  settled  down  to  his  measured  stroke,  and  she 
shifted  herself  into  an  easier  and  more  recumbent 
position,  and  stuck  her  little  right  thumb  over  the 
side  into  the  water,  where  the  hand  and  wrist  seemed 
to  Muriel  more  dazzling  than  the  moonlit  swirl  that 
the  thumb  threw  up — "  Well,  my  dear  young  lady, 
there  are  two  reasons  for  that,  two  at  least,  as  there 
are  for  most  things.  One  is  that  I'm  rather  a  sport- 
ive sort  of  chap,  as  you  have  frequently  been  compli- 
mentary enough  to  observe  (in  yourown  language, 
however);  and  the  other  is"  (and  here  he  stopped 
rowing  and  lifted  upon  her  that  ponderous  look 
which  somehow  she  had  grown  to  enjoy  bracing 
herself  to  receive),  "that  when  I'm  talking  over 
these  subjects,  their  depth  presents  such  a  contrast 


282  In  the  Same  Boat. 

to  the  shallowness  of  the  best  opinions  I  or  any 
man  can  form  upon  them,  that  it  stirs  my  sense  of 
humor.  But,  don't  think  again,  when  I  speak  light- 
ly in  such  connections,that  I'm  feeling  lightly.  I'm 
only  indulging  in  a  little  unwonted  modesty  re- 
garding my  own  opinions." 

"  You  caught  that  from  your  uncle,  too  !"  she 
said. 

"Thank  you,  I  didn't  know  it  merited  such 
praise." 

"I've  heard  you,  too,"  she  continued,  "indulge 
your  sense  of  humor  pretty  freely  regarding  other 
people's  opinions  on  similar  subjects." 

"  Then  do  vouchsafe  me  a  little  grace  for  treat- 
ing my  own  in  the  same  way." 

"Yes,  yes;  you're  not  as  bad  as  you  were  two 
months  ago.  Then  you  had  unbounded  respect 
for  your  own  opinions.  But  your  uncle  has  given 
you  a  good  deal  of  judicious  snubbing  in  that  time, 
I  fancy.  Hasn't  he  ?" 

"  So  has  somebody  else,  Miss.  But  my  uncle 
always  does  it  kindly,  and  somebody  else  has  not 
always  been  as  gentle  as  she  is  to-night.  Perhaps 
she  has  learned  something,  too!" 

"  Merciful  heavens  !  Haven't  I  told  you  that  I 
have  ?  But  do  go  on.  You've  been  wandering  in 
your  mind  ever  since  you  turned  the  boat  around." 

"  That  is,"  he  answered,  "  ever  since  the  moon- 
light has  been  shining  on  your  face." 

"  Evidently,"  she  retorted,  "  it  has  been  shining 
on  your  brain." 

If  Nina's  face  could  be  taken  as  a  test,  the  moon- 
light was  rosy  for  a  moment.  Muriel  went  on: 


In  the  Same  Boat.  283 

"  No,  with  my  back  to  the  moon,  my  brain  is 
better  protected  than  before." 

"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  "  perhaps  you  can  go  on 
rationally.  You  were  admitting  what  I  said,  that 
there  is  a  selfish  element  to  fight  in  making  nearly 
all  moral  decisions." 

"  So  there  is.  But  it  doesn't  follow  from  that, 
that  we  have  any  other  weapons  to  fight  it  with 
than  just  those  we  have;  and  they  have  come 
through  experience — always,  of  course,  including 
that  of  our  ancestors." 

"  But,"  she  retorted,  "  you  talk  as  if  there  were 
no  such  thing  as  conscience." 

"  Certainly  there  is  such  a  thing,"  he  replied. 
"  But  we  got  our  moral  sense  from  the  experience 
of  our  ancestors,  developed  by  our  own,  just  as  we 
got  our  color  sense  or  any  other  sense.  The  sense 
of  moral  beauty  was  developed  in  just  the  same 
way  as  the  sense  of  physical  beauty,  by  sympathy 
with  fit  objects  and  antipathy  from  repulsive 
ones.  Evil  is  a  repulsive  object.  I  don't  deny 
that  religious  enthusiasm  has  often  been  a  good 
defence  against  it.  I  do  assert,  though,  that 
it's  often  been  a  bad  one.  I  assert,  too,  that  most 
of  the  best  men  I  know  are  getting  along  without 
it." 

"  Without  enthusiasm  ?" 

"  I  said  religious  enthusiasm.  I  meant  the  kind 
that  hinges  on  a  professed  knowledge  of  the  super- 
natural. I  don't  mean  that  they  get  along  without 
moral  enthusiasm:  that's  a  natural  thing,  for  morals 
are  a  set  of  natural  facts  right  before  our  compre- 
hension. There's  nothing  supernatural  about  them, 


284  In  the  Same  Boat. 

though  folks  used  to  think  so.  Still  less  do  I  mean 
that  we  are  without  enthusiasm  for  our  common  hu- 
manity. Both  these  enthusiasms  are  possible  with- 
out the  slightest  tinge  of  supernatural  sanction." 

Evidently  Mr.  Muriel's  association  with  his  uncle 
for  the  past  two  months  had  been  expanding  his 
information  on  the  subjects  he  was  discoursing 
upon  so  glibly,  and  possibly  his  association  with 
Miss  Wahring  had  been  quickening  his  interest  in 
them. 

"But  why,"  asked  Nina  after  a  moment,  "do 
you  object  so  to  supernatural  sanction  ?  Surely, 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  we  could  have  it." 

"Assuming  that  it  would,  which  is  clear  assump- 
tion, we  haven't  got  it,  and  as  soon  as  men  claim  to 
have  it,  they  prove  they  have  not  got  it  by  show- 
ing that  the  samples  of  what  all  claim  to  be  the 
same  thing,  are  not  at  all  like  each  other.  One 
man's  religion  contradicts  another's.  Then  they 
begin  to  quarrel.  The  worst  bloodsheds  in  history 
have  come  from  those  quarrels.  Dynastic  and  ter- 
ritorial wars  and  persecutions  have  been  nothing 
to  religious  ones.  So,  too,  the  worst  domestic  and 
social  quarrels  are  the  religious  ones." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  all  may  be  as  you  say,  but  I 
never  thought  over  it  much." 

"  Girls  don't.     We're  made  to  help  them." 

"  Perhaps  some  of  these  days  you'll  see  some 
things  that  girls  were  made  to  help  men  in,  too." 

"What  things?  I  don't  know  anything  but 
looking  pretty  that  men  can't  beat  women  at. 
What  else  is  there  ?" 

"Sympathizing." 


In  the  Same  Boat.  285 

"Oh,  I  always  thought  any  fool  could  do  that." 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  a  fool. 
You're  not  able  to  do  much  of  it,  I'm  afraid.  But 
now  I'll  give  you  a  touch  of  your  uncle,"  she  added, 
resuming  an  upright  position  and  wiping  the  water 
from  her  hand.  "What's  knowledge  good  for?" 

"To  increase  happiness." 

"  Good  !     What  are  the  arts  good  for?" 

"  To  increase  happiness." 

"  Good  again  !  You  see  what  a  convert  you've 
been  making.  Now,  on  your  own  reasoning,  sym- 
pathy is  the  highest  of  the  arts.  It  does  more  for 
happiness  than  any  other  art." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Because  you  never  felt  the  need  of  it.  Because 
you  never  suffered,  even  as  I  have  been  suffering 
for  the  past  few  weeks." 

"  Haven't  I?  Now,  if  you  are  such  a  believer  in 
sympathy,  why  don't  you  exercise  more  of  it  on  a 
poor  devil  like  me?" 

"  '  Poor  devil '  is  good.  You're  the  last  man  to 
admit  yourself  an  object  of  compassion.  Why,  I 
began  our  acquaintance  by  pitying  you,  and  much 
thanks  I  got !" 

"But  then  I  do  have  my  tastes  and  feelings  and 
even  aspirations,  and  some  of  them  are  not  un- 
worthy of  even  your  interest,  and  yet  you  don't 
seem  to  have  cared  much  for  them — at  least  not 
until  to-night,  and  then  it  seems  to  have  been 
principally  because  you  wanted  to  pump  me." 

"  Oh,  you  stupid  boy !  don't  you  see  that  I 
wouldn't  have  'pumped'  you,  as  you  call  it,  if  I 
hadn't  grown  interested  in  what  you  have  in  you 


286  In  the  Same  Boat. 

to  pump?  Haven't  I  told  you  so  before  to-night? 
But  my  not  having  made  it  apparent  to  you  before, 
supports  what  I've  begun  to  suspect — that  I'm  not 
blessed  with  a  first-class  genius  for  sympathy  my- 
self, and  that  such  as  I  have,  is  not  very  well  de- 
veloped." 

"  Practise  it  on  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"I'm  not  sure  you  deserve  it." 

"  I  don't  mind  trying  to  deserve  it.  But  you 
have  seemed  so  awfully  far  off." 

"And  yet,  Mr.  Muriel,"  and  her  beautiful  candid 
eyes  looked  straight  into  his,  in  the  bright  moon- 
light, while  she  said,  "our  opinions  don't  seem  so 
far  apart  as  they  used  to.  Except  that  I  believe 
more  fully  than  you  do  that  God  is  behind  it  all, 
most  of  the  differences  left  between  us,  seem  to  me 
mere  words." 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  hope  so.     Do  you  ?" 

"Yes!" 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

DEPENDENCE. 

FROM  the  cleft  in  the  hills  away  under  the  ma- 
jestic clouds  that  Muriel  had  pointed  out,  came  a 
puff  of  wind.  The  sky  had  been  growing  darker, 
not  with  that  pervading  mist  which  hides  all  the 
stars,  but  with  more  clouds  and  heavier,  which 
made  the  stars  between  their  rifts  seem  all  the 
brighter.  Over  in  the  West,  throbbed,  almost 
gently,  a  glow  that  was  the  last  of  many  reflections 
of  far-off  lightnings.  The  next  time,  the  wind 
came,  not  with  a  puff,  but  with  a  burst,  and  the 
gentle  glows  in  the  western  sky  became  swift- 
climbing  flames  that  set  the  edges  of  the  clouds 
on  fire;  and  there  was  thunder,  but  muttered  so 
low  that  they  would  not  have  heard  if  they  had 
not  been  intent. 

"  It's  coming,"  said  Muriel. 

"Oh,  how  glorious!"  cried  the  girl,  and  then 
again  the  western  sky  burned  for  an  instant  as  if 
the  sun  had  just  set. 

Then:  "  I  come,"  boomed  the  thunder. 

"  It's  glorious,  glorious,  glorious  !"  echoed  Mu- 
riel. "  But  I'll  be  getting  you  wet." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  how  you'll  be  responsible  for 
it,"  said  the  girl. 

"  I    always   feel   responsible   for   any   woman    I 


288  Dependent, 

have  with  me,"  answered  the  boy,  as  he  bent  hard 
to  his  oars.  "And  for  you  I  feel  wry  responsible." 

She  smiled  at  him  and  hummed  some  contented 
little  tune. 

"  How  you  do  make  the  boat  go  !"  she  said.  "  I 
actually  see  foam  come  back  from  the  bows." 
And  then  she  said  to  herself:  "  How  strong  he  is  ! 
And  he  is  pulling  so  because  he  wants  to  save  me 
from  the  storm."  Muriel  exerting  himself,  was  a 
new  Muriel,  and  exerting  himself  for  somebody 
else,  almost  a  strange  one:  but  she  liked  the  novel- 
ties, and  felt  as  woman  always  feels  when  the  man 
before  her  shows  himself  strong. 

The  storm  came  fast,  and  the  black  waves  were 
high.  The  lightning  was  soon  no  play  of  reflec- 
tions, but  split  great  jagged  rifts  through  the  sky 
over  the  heights,  and  the  flashes  showed  boats 
already  cowering  under  reefed  sails.  The  peaks 
flung  the  thunder  to  each  other,  and  it  rolled 
down  the  precipices. 

"When  the  thunder  rolls  down,  it  will  fall  into 
the  river,  and  can't  catch  us,"  laughed  Nina. 

"Almost  anything  can  catch  us  at  the  rate  we're 
making,"  said  Muriel.  "  Why  don't  you  get 
scared  ?" 

"  Scared?"  with  a  long  dwell  on  the  a. 

"Why,  yes.     Other  women  would." 

"You  don't  know  me,"  she  answered  very 
quietly  from  the  darkness.  For  now  they  could 
not  even  see  each  other  except  as  the  lightning 
flashed. 

"  By  Jove,  I  didn't !" 


Dependence.  289 

"  But  Jove  himself  has  shown  you  to  me,"  he 
added  a  second  later,  when  the  next  flash  came  and 
showed  her — not  leaning  back  languidly,  but  erect 
against  the  glory,  in  her  close  white  gown,  her 
proud  bosom  swelling  forward  as  her  arms  strained 
on  the  tiller-ropes,  her  beautiful  lips  set  firm,  her 
nostrils  dilated,  her  calm  eyes  peering  far  to  catch 
her  bearings,  and  her  hair  made,  by  the  lightning, 
a  halo  around  her  pure  face. 

Did  you  ever  pull  a  boat  hard?  If  you  did, 
against  wind  or  tide,  or  other  men,  you  can  under- 
stand how  Muriel,  seeing  this  image,  recognized  it 
but  did  not  feel  it,  until  quiet  moments  later.  But 
in  such  moments,  how  often  it  came,  and  how 
vividly  ! 

A  big  drop  splashed  on  his  left  hand. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  he.  "  You  must  put  on  my 
coat." 

"  Oh  no  !" 

"What?"  said  he,  like  the  crack  of  a  whip. 
"  This  is  no  time  for  nonsense.  You'll  be  wet  to 
the  skin." 

"  So  will  you." 

"  It  makes  no  difference  if  I  am.  Besides,  the 
exercise  will  keep  me  warm.  You  can  do  nothing 
but  sit  there  till  your  teeth  chatter.  Here!" 

He  took  his  Norfolk  jacket  from  under  his 
thwart  and  crawled  toward  her.  The  boat  was 
pitching  about  so  that  if  he  had  stood  up,  he  would 
have  toppled  over. 

"Put  this  on." 

And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  vielded  to 
compulsion,  and  she  liked  it. 


290  Dependence. 

"  I  don't  want  any  cigars,"  she  uttered  between 
two  little  laughs.  She  had  put  her  hand  in  a 
pocket  while  fumbling  for  a  sleeve. 

"  Oh,  there's  a  watch  and  a  lot  of  things  there," 
he  said.  "  Let  me  have  it  a  moment." 

As  he  groped  for  it  in  the  dark,  he  touched  her 
hand  and  felt  an  impulse  to  kiss  it,  but  the  boat 
was  rolling  in  the  trough,  a  little  flurry  of  rain 
came,  and  his  impulse  hardly  had  a  chance  to  be- 
come distinct  enough  for  him  to  know  whether  he 
wanted  to  kiss  the  hand  because  it  was  hers,  or 
simply  because  it  was  a  woman's.  He  knew  later, 
though;  especially  when  he  reflected  that  he  had 
never  in  his  life  before  wanted  to  kiss  a  woman  on 
the  hand. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  have  the  coat  by  the  collar, 
and  am  holding  the  inside  toward  you.  Feel 
until  you  know  your  right  arm  is  in  the  right  arm- 
hole,  then  I'll  release  it  to  you." 

In  a  second  he  almost  felt  her  in  his  arms;  and 
afterwards  he  had  occasion  to  realize  how  abso- 
lutely he  respected  her. 

"  Now  you've  made  a  man  of  me,"  she  said, 
laughing,  as  she  settled  into  the  coat  and  into  her 
seat. 

"You  didn't  need  it !"  he  answered,  and  turned 
to  crawl  back  to  his  thwart. 

He  felt  for  his  oars — and  they  were  gone.  In 
his  impetuosity,  he  had  neglected  to  stow  them, 
and  they  had  no  stops.  He  was  entitled,  however, 
to  the  excuse,  such  as  it  was,  that  he  was  used  to 
stops. 

"  Why  don't  you  row  ?"  Nina  called. 


Dependence.  29 1 

"  The  oars —     Wait  a  moment." 

He  wanted  to  spare  her,  somehow.  A  flash  of 
lightning  came  and  showed  the  situation.  She 
said  nothing. 

"There's  really  no  occasion  to  be  alarmed,"  said 
he.  "  Nothing  serious  can  happen  to  us.  We'll 
be  blown  ashore  somewhere  pretty  soon,  at  this 
rate,  and  even  if  I  had  the  oars,  I'm  not  sure  it 
wouldn't  be  the  wisest  thing  to  get  ashore  at  the 
very  nearest  point  we  can,  instead  of  rowing  down 
the  river  in  the  rain  at  a  snail's  pace,  as  I  was  do- 
ing before." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  first  that  they  were 
gone  ?"  said  she. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  frighten  you,  and  wanted  to 
think." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  done  any  good  to  get  fright- 
ened," she  said  very  simply. 

"Well,  you're  just  a  trump!"  he  exclaimed,  "and 
the  queen  at  that." 

"  Not  good  for  many  tricks  just  now,  I'm  afraid," 
she  responded  with  a  little  laugh. 

"That  depends  on  the  hands!"  he  answered. 
"There's  not  very  much  at  risk,  I  think,  if  you  don't 
catch  cold.  Let  me  see! — I  have  it!  I'm  going  to 
paddle  with  the  bottom-board  from  the  bow.  You 
can  steer  against  me.  If  that  jacket  gets  soaked 
through,  I'll  give  you  another  bottom-board  to 
paddle  with  and  keep  yourself  warm." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  look  for  the  oars  ?" 

"  We  can  poke  along  to  shore  sooner  than  we 
could  find  them.  The  wind's  with  us." 

He  groped  around  and  got  the  bottom-board  out. 


292  Dependence. 

"  This  is  a  poor  paddle,"  he  said,  "  so  you'll  have 
to  steer  hard  against  me  to  keep  her  even.  I'll 
change  sides  occasionally,  to  relieve  your  arms. 
Why  didn't  I  know  before  what  a  regular-built, 
spang-up —  Here  goes!"  and  he  set  to  work. 

Another  flash  came  with  a  deafening  crash  of 
thunder  close  at  hand. 

"  Pray  excuse  my  back.  I  forgot  my  manners 
in  the  dark,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder.  He 
had  turned  on  his  thwart  to  use  his  paddle. 

"  Since  we're  transformed  into  a  canoe,"  she  re- 
sponded, "  I  ought  to  be  doing  the  paddling  here, 
in  the  stern,  and  you,  there,  facing  me  at  ease." 

"  Even  at  Mount  Desert,  they  don't  let  the 
women  do  the  work  that  way,"  he  answered,  "and 
women  have  their  rights  there,  if  anywhere.  But 
the  right  to  do  the  work,  is  one  they've  never 
clamored  for,  I  believe." 

The  rain  came  down  in  sheets.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  blackness  itself  were  wet  and  falling  on  them. 
They  went  along,  occasionally  exchanging  a  few 
cheerful  words,  until  he  said: 

"  Of  course  you're  soaked.  Let  me  get  you  an- 
other bottom-board,  to  keep  yourself  warm  with." 

"  No!  We're  almost  inshore.  But  may  I  wriggle 
the  rudder  from  side  to  side  ?  That  will  exercise 
me." 

"  It  would  hold  us  back  a  little,"  he  objected. 
"  Why  not  pull  both  tiller-ropes  at  once  and  swing 
yourself  to  and  fro,  as  on  the  vertical  parallels  in 
the  gymnasium?  You  don't  really  need  to  pull 
alternately." 

"  You're  a  man  of  resources  !"  she  exclaimed. 


Dependence.  293 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  flash  of  lightning  just  pre- 
vented their  being  bumped  into  a  wharf,  and  they 
ran  past  it  on  to  a  sloping  shore,  where,  in  the 
darkness,  they  did  graze  a  boat  hauled  up  on  their 
right. 

"  Sit  still,"  said  Muriel.  And  he  took  the  painter, 
jumped  out  through  the  little  breakers  that  some- 
how managed  to  show  white,  hauled  up  the  boat, 
straddled  the  bow  to  steady  her,  and  said: 

"  Now  creep  to  me,  and  be  careful  not  to  hurt 
yourself  against  the  thwarts." 

"Shall  I  unship  the  rudder?" 

"  It  would  be  as  well.  Lay  it  under  the  seat, 
please." 

She  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  groped  her  way  to 
him. 

"  Let  me  carry  you  through  this  mud,"  said  he. 

"  No,  I  can't  be  more  bedraggled,  and  it  will  be 
all  mud  going  home,  anyway." 

"  Take  my  hand  then,  and  jump  toward  me!" 

"  Wait  for  another  flash.  I  can't  see  where  I'll 
land." 

The  flash  came.  She  reached  out  her  hand  to 
Muriel  and  jumped.  He  held  the  hand  and  put  it 
over  his  arm,  she  not  resisting,  and  they  walked 
up  the  bank  toward  the  lights.  One  was  from  a 
waterside  tavern.  With  their  eyes  opened  to  the 
absolute  blackness  before,  they  could  now  see  quite 
plainly. 

"  Come  under  this  shed,"  said  Muriel,  "and  I'll 
go  in  and  get  you  a  hot  whiskey  that  will  expand 
your  views  of  the  universe." 

"Must  I  take  it?" 


294  Dependence. 

"  You  unquestionably  must." 

She  waited  and  Muriel  went  in.  Behind  the  bar 
was  a  jolly  old  river-dog,  who  said: 

"  Don't  take  it  hot  if  you've  got  to  go  out  again. 
You're  too  wet.  No  use  in  opening  up  your  pores. 
Hadn't  you  better  put  on  some  of  my  togs, 
though?" 

Muriel  pondered  a  moment  about  "togs"  for  his 
companion,  and  then  said: 

"  No.  It's  only  a  little  way  home.  The  walk 
will  keep  me  warm  enough.  I've  a  friend  out  here 
to  whom  I'll  take  this,  and  swallow  mine  when  I 
come  back." 

"Why  in  blazes  don't  he  come  in  ?" 

But  Muriel  had  taken  some  whiskey  and  cold 
water  and  was  gone. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  if  a  man's  coat  has  made  a  man 
of  you,  take  this  like  a  man."  "  Miss  Nina,"  some- 
how, had  dropped  out  of  its  dominance  in  his 
phraseology. 

"  I  can't  promise  to  enjoy  it  like  a  man.  But 
'  Here  goes,' — that's  what  you  say,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  you're  the  queen  of — trumps  isn't  good 
enough  for  you." 

Flyingabout  like  the  recent  lightning,  he  ran  back, 
gulped  his  own  drink,  flung  down  half  a  dollar, 
and  was  out  of  the  door,  having  paid  no  attention 
to  the  old  fellow's  yell  of  "  Here's  your  change!" 
or  his  after-reflection,  "  Blowed  if  that  isn't  the 
maddest  cove  around  these  parts  !  I've  seed  him 
afore  somewhere!" 

Then  Muriel  strode  off  with  Nina's  hand  again 
on  his  arm,  and  said  to  her: 


Dependence.  295 

'*  You  can  dress  like  a  man  and  drink  like  a  man. 
now  walk  like  a  man." 

"You'll  forget  that  I'm  a  woman  if  I  don't  dj 
something  inconvenient." 

"  No,  by  Heavens,  I'll  never  forget  that!  But 
weren't  you  afraid  at  all  in  the  boat  ?" 

"  You  would  have  saved  me  !"  It  had  slipped  out, 
but  she  did  not  even  reflect  that  it  had. 

"  I'm  not  a  very  good  swimmer." 

"  You  would  have  been." 

"  Miss  Nina,  I  don't  deserve  this,"  and  he  felt,  for 
almost  the  first  time  in  his  life,  sincerely  modest. 

Now  it  seems  pretty  plain  that  out  there  in  the 
dark,  with  her  depending  upon  him,  that  man  was 
in  love  with  that  woman.  Why  then  didn't  he  tell 
her  so  ?  Simply  because  he  didn't  know  it  himself. 

He  felt  the  emotion,  but  he  doubted  whether 
this — simply  this,  could  be  the  occasion  for  which 
he  had  waited  through  all  his  thinking  years. 
From  boyhood,  he  had  cultivated  a  beatific  dream 
of  loving  some  woman  superior  to  any  whom  he  had 
ever  met  or  ever  could  meet — a  creature  full  of 
all  possible  charms,  half  of  which,  of  course,  could 
not  exist  in  conjunction  with  the  other  half.  Nina 
Wahring,  equally  of  course,  was  not  such  a  creature: 
so  how  was  he  to  learn  all  at  once  that  he  was  in 
love  with  Nina  Wahring  ?  His  Love,  forsooth,  was 
to  be  hail-fellow-well-met  with  him — more  of  a 
boon  companion  than  any  of  his  college  mates,  yet 
he  was  always  to  treat  her  with  the  deference  of  a 
subject  to  a  queen:  here  he  had  been  calling  Nina 
a  trump,  and  had  made  her  put  on  his  coat — sim- 
ply made  her.  Of  course  she  was  not  his  pedestaled 
ideal ! 


296  Dependence. 

Worse  for  him,  while  in  the  deepest  sanctuary 
of  his  soul,  that  changing  ideal  had  stood  sacred 
behind  its  altars  ;  in  the  outer  courts  of  the  tem- 
ple, the  priest  had  chucked  the  dancing  maidens 
under  the  chin.  He  was  not  the  first  whose 
service  within  the  hallowed  walls  had  been  pas- 
sionately true,  while  his  life  outside  had  been, 
just  as  passionately,  something  else.  In  short, 
many  of  the  sweet  impulses  that  had  drawn  him, 
as  man,  toward  Nina  as  woman,  had  become,  for 
him,  familiarized  to  baser  uses.  They  were  no 
proof  to  him  that  here  was  his  Love.  He  had  per- 
mitted them  to  lead  him  often  where  he  had  no 
thought  of  love.  They  had  not  been  reserved  for 
their  true  function — to  guide  him,  unthinking,  to 
that  pure  goal. 

Not  only,  too,  were  his  imagination  and  his 
passions  all  out  of  gear,  but  that  deliberative,  skep- 
tical intellect  of  his — in  great  matters  cautious, 
despite  his  impetuosity  in  little  ones — must  make 
its  leisurely  survey  of  the  situation.  More  than 
once  before,  he  had  unthinkingly  striven  toward 
some  big  temptation,  and  when  he  had  got  squarely 
within  reach  of  it,  so  that  he  could  realize  what  a 
large  part  of  his  life  it  must  absorb,  he  had  quietly 
turned  his  back,  and  afterward  called  himself  a 
weakling  and  a  fool  for  not  grasping  what  he  had 
sought,  and  disregarding  consequences.  The  pale 
cast  of  thought  was  inevitably  so  much  a  habit  of 
his  constitution,  that  it  not  seldom  sicklied  o'er  the 
native  hue  of  resolution,  especially  where  resolu- 
tion was  portentous  with  possibilities.  He  was  as 
incapable  of  being  carried  entirely  away  by  floods 


Dependence.  297 

of  pure  emotion,  as  he  was  of  constantly  dwelling 
on  the  safe  heights  of  philosophic  calm. 

He  was  too  young  to  realize  that  great  junctures 
do  not  necessarily  require  great  preparations,  and 
that  many  of  the  culminating  determinations  of 
life  have  to  be  made  at  unanticipated  moments. 
Vastly  less  was  he  able  to  realize  that  most  tre- 
mendous fact  in  practical  morals,  that  the  only 
safety  at  such  sudden  moments,  is  in  a  character 
so  drilled,  in  every-day  life,  to  do  the  brave  thing 
and  the  right  thing,  that,  when  there  is  no  time  to 
think,  it  does  them  automatically.  But  this  is  be- 
side the  immediate  issue,  which  is  simply  that  it 
was  so  much  the  habit  of  Muriel's  mind  to  imagine 
what  great  circumstances  must  be,  that  he  had 
virtually  put  them  outside  the  possibilities  of  actual 
life,  and  might  be  in  the  thick  of  the  greatest  things 
that  life  can  bring,  without  realizing  how  great 
they  really  were.  Well!  for  all  these  reasons, 

and  probably  a  great  many  more,  (For  what  search 
will  discover  all  the  springs  of  motive,  or  what 
patience  describe  or  even  comprehend  them  all  ?) 
Muriel  did  not  yet  know  that  he  loved  Nina. 
But  as  he  strode  along  with  her,  following  the 
storm  which  had  passed  them  as  contemptuously 
as  it  had  caught  and  tossed  them,  he  did  get  so 
far  as  to  have  one  or  two  distinct  questions  whether 
in  that  majestic  future  where  his  imagination  pro- 
jected all  great  things, — and  almost  all  great  con- 
duct,— he  might  not  love  her. 

The  sky  was  clear  behind  them,  and  even  the 
moon  threw  in  front  their  shadows  arm-in-arm  in 
most  friendly  fashion.  Nina  was  a  little  worried 


298  Dependence. 

over  the  anxiety  she  knew  her  mother  must  be  feel- 
ing on  her  account,  but  that  could  not  long  repress 
the  gale  of  high  spirits  into  which  such  an  experi- 
ence always  throws  the  young  and  healthy  and 
brave.  But  Muriel,  while  alive  to  the  fun  of  it, 
had  two  or  three  periods  of  deep  meditation. 
He  was  also  getting  more  and  more  under  the 
undefinable  power  of  Nina's  presence — a  power 
that,  as  he  had  begun  faintly  to  realize,  always 
brought  out  the  best  of  any  man  that  was  with 
her.  As  they  chatted,  somehow  he  talked  less 
slang,  and  his  voice  grew  deeper,  and  he  let  up  on 
their  tearing  pace — for  they  were  in  a  glow — and 
the  influences  of  the  calm  deep  night  began  to  fill 
his  soul. 

"  Oh  the  ineffable  order  and  majesty  of  it  all!" 
he  exclaimed.  "  How  can  people  worship  a  God 
of  freaks  ?" 

"  How  could  they  make  him  other  than  a  God  of 
freaks,"  said  Nina,  "  with  such  an  experience 
thrust  in  upon  the  order,  as  we  had  half  an  hour 
ago  ?" 

"Yes,  very  likely  he  killed  somebody  then,  and 
out  of  pure  wantonness.  I  don't  wonder  the  sav- 
ages sometimes  beat  their  idols.  What  can  we 
make  out  of  it  all  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Nina,  "  I've  been  told  not  to  probe 
the  mysteries;  but  I  don't  find  that  very  satisfying. 
I  found  your  talk  in  the  boat  much  more  so." 

"  See  here!"  broke  in  Muriel,  "  I've  got  a  queer 
idea.  Suppose  these  mysteries  are  simply  of  our  own 
making  !  Nature  is  plain  enough,  or  at  least  our 
ignorance  of  her  is  not  superstitious  and  torturing: 


Dependence.  299 

we  can  study  her.  Now  suppose  nobody  had  in- 
vented any  God  to  put  behind  Nature,  then  there 
are  none  of  his  mysterious  ways  to  account  for." 

"Then  I'd  be  lost!"  exclaimed  Nina.  "Take 
God  away,  and  there's  nothing  left." 

The  remarks  were  inconsistent  enough  with  some 
things  she  had  been  saying,  but  such  inconsistency 
was  natural  enough  in  her  chaotic  state  of  mind. 

Muriel's  comment  was:  "Nothing  left?  I've 
rather  a  better  opinion  of  the  majesty  of  those 
hills,  that  river,  these  deep,  deep  heavens  and — 
and,"  he  added,  turning  towards  her,  "  of  your  fair 
though  somewhat  bedraggled  self,  gentle  lady." 

"Yes,  Nature  inspires  one  !"  said  Nina,  after  she 
had  got  through  laughing  at  his  complex  compli- 
ment, "  but  I  meant  that  without  God,  there  would 
be  nothing  to  depend  upon." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that  either.  Don't  you 
put  any  faith  in  '  the  indomitable  soul  of  Armand 
de  Richelieu'?  You're  certainly  no  stranger  to  it 
in  your  own  person  ;  and  as  to  Nature  :  there's  un- 
varying Law  behind  it  all.  You  can  depend  upon 
gravitation  at  least  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  and  I  can  meditate  upon  the 
procession  of  the  equinoxes,  I  believe  I  heard 
somebody  call  it,  though  I  haven't  the  slightest 
idea  what  it  means  :  but  I've  no  doubt  they're 
something  very  responsive  for  a  burdened  soul  to 
cast  itself  upon." 

"Well,  now  there's  Uncle  Grand.  He  doesn't 
seem  to  have  any  other  sort  of  thing  to  cast  his 
soul  upon.  But  perhaps  yours  needs  something 
like  the  human,  only  more  than  the  human,  as  all 


3oo  Dependence. 

women's  seem  to — because  they  haven't  the  bino- 
mial theorem  and  the  Pons  Asinorum  as  we  men 
have,  I  suppose.  But  nonsense  aside,  there's  Uncle 
Grand,  who  I  don't  believe  has  said  his  prayers  for 
twenty  years,  and  yet  he  is  good  and  calm  and 
noble.  Now  why  can't  other  people  get  along  on 
what  he  gets  along  on  ?" 

"  Other  people  are  not  he,"  Nina  answered.  "Do 
you  know  that  for  a  long  time  I  wouldn't  believe 
in  him  ?  And  I  couldn't  make  out  how  my  mother 
did.  I  can't  make  it  out  yet,  for  that  matter,  as 
long  as  she  professes  to  believe  in  some  other 
things." 

"  Such  professions  of  belief,  in  people  of  her  age, 
are  matters  of  habit,"  said  Muriel.  "  People  don't 
really  think  about  them." 

"Well,  how  about  professions  of  disbelief?" 
asked  Nina. 

"  If  a  person  doesn't  believe  what's  generally 
taught,  it  proves  that  he  has  thought  for  himself," 
Muriel  answered.  "  People  are  not  generally  taught 
what  you  call  the  disbelief,  as  everybody  is  taught 
the  belief.  But  what,  after  all,  have  we  got  to  de- 
pend upon  save  what  we  know?  We  do  know  that 
this  is  a  Universe  governed  by  Law — not  only  this 
immensity  of  ponderable  facts  shining  above  us,  but 
the  intellectual  and  moral  immensity  within;  and 
that  Law — that  no  subterfuge  can  avoid  and  no 
prayer  can  change,  is  what  we've  got  to  rely  upon." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Muriel,"  exclaimed  Nina,  "no  prayer 
can  change?  Hard — inexorable?  No!  don't  let  us 
say  we  know  that!  Most  of  what  we  say  we  know, 
\ve  have  taken  on  faith  from  other  people,  We 


Dependence.  301 

can  take  the  truths  of  Christianity  in  that  way  too, 
if  we  take  other  truths  so." 

"  We  don't  take  other  statements  so,  when  they 
contradict  common-sense,"  said  Muriel.  "But  I 
don't  object  to  taking  the  truths  of  Christianity; 
I  object  to  taking  its  untruths.  You  know  per- 
fectly well,  as  Uncle  Grand  said  the  first  time  we 
dined  over  at  John  Calmire's,  that  what  were 
assumed  to  be  the  truths  of  Christianity  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago,  were  not  the  same  as  fifteen 
hundred  years  ago,  or  the  same  then  as  at  any 
later  time.  And  a  greater  change  in  what  are 
called  the  truths  of  Christianity,  has  taken  place 
in  the  last  thirty  years  than  during  all  their 
previous  history." 

"  Then  how  are  we  going  to  know  what  is  the 
truth  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Oh,"  he  answered,  "  I  guess  we'll  manage  to 
get  along:  we  generally  have." 

"  Perhaps !  We'll  hope  so !"  she  said  with  a 
despondent  sort  of  cheerfulness,  "  but,"  and  she  un- 
consciously increased  her  slight  pressure  on  his  arm, 
"my  heart  shrinks  from  all  these  uncertainties." 

"Poor  little  heart!  We  have  been  burdening  it 
pretty  sorely."  He  spoke  tenderly  to  her  for  the 
first  time. 

"It  is  getting  stronger,  and  finding  good  help," 
she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  smile. 

They  were  at  the  steps,  and  after  hurried  expla- 
nations and  reassurances  to  Mrs.  Wahring  and  Cal- 
mire,  they  went  in  their  wet  clothes  to  their  rooms. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

ABSENCE    OMITS    TO  CONQUER, 

NINA  awoke  late  the  next  morning,  feeling  per- 
fectly bright  and  fresh.  When  she  got  downstairs, 
she  learned  that  Muriel  had  already  gone  to  Cal- 
mire  to  attend  to  some  sudden  exigencies  for  his 
uncle,  and  that  those  matters  would  involve  his 
taking  the  boat  that  night  at  its  landing  where  the 
tributary  joined  the  great  river.  There  was  no  land- 
ing nearer  Fleuvemont.  She  missed  him,  and  felt 
keenly  disappointed  on  learning  that  this  sudden 
excursion  would  probably  connect  itself  with  a 
visit  on  Long  Island  promised  for  a  few  days  later, 
and  that  he  would  not  be  back  for  ten  days  or  a 
fortnight.  "  And  he  went  without  even  a  word  for 
me,"  she  was  thinking,  when  Pierre  laid  a  note  be- 
side her  plate,  saying: 

"  M'sieu  Muriel  has  commanded  me  to  give  zees 
to  Mademoiselle." 

It  ran  simply: 

"  What  a  lot  of  time  we've  been  wasting  while 
we  might  have  known  each  other  better!  I  hate 
to  waste  more  by  going  away.  I  hope  you're  quite 
well  after  last  night.  Mighty  few  girls  would  have 
behaved  as  you  did.  Auf  wiedersehen  !  M.  C." 

302 


Absence  Omits  to  Conquer.  3°3 

Her  first  feeling  on  opening  the  note,  was  dis- 
satisfaction at  his  omitting  all  form  of  address. 
This  was  not  lessened  by  his  including  her  with 
himself  as  having  lost  time.  Then  it  was  lessened 
by  his  saying  that  he  hated  to  lose  more.  Then 
the  fact  that  His  Superbness  really  had  thought 
about  her  health  or  anybody's,  almost  amused  her. 
Then  his  just  and  straightforward  compliment 
pleased  her,  and  then  his  invocation  for  a  reunion 
surprised  a  feeling  that  made  her  blush.  Then  she 
turned  back  to  the  beginning  and,  after  reading  the 
first  sentence,  said  to  herself:  "Well!  It  may  be 
conceited  and  it  may  be  impudent,  but  it's  true  !" 
Her  mother  noticed  her  blush  and  said: 
"  Is  that  boy  up  to  more  of  his  impudence?" 
"  A  little,"  said  Nina,  laughing  half  nervously. 
All  that  day,  the  spots  she  had  previously  fre- 
quented, somehow  began  to  be  individualized  by 
"  Here  he  said  "  or  "  Here  he  did  "  or  "Here  he 
looked  "  so  and  so.  And  the  scraps  of  music  that 
floated  through  her  mind  were  more  and  more  in 
the  timbre  of  Muriel's  cornet;  and  the  songs  that 
came  through  her  lips  were  more  and  more  those 
that  she  had  caught  from  Muriel.  She  was  not 
as  conscious  of  all  this  as  a  more  sophisticated 
girl  would  have  been,  but  so  far  as  she  did  realize 
it,  it  gave  her  a  timid  pleasure. 

On  the  next  Sunday,  she  and  her  mother  drove 
over  to  hear  Courtenay  preach.  Her  mind  was 
not  very  much  on  the  sermon  until  this  passage 
attracted  her: 

"And,  my  friends,  this  curse  does  not   come  to 


304  Absence  Omits  to  Conquer. 

the  learned  alone.  Knowledge,  it  is  true,  has  been 
a  stumbling-block  to  the  faith  of  many;  but  there 
is  a  form  of  ignorance  aping  knowledge,  that  has 
been  a  stumbling-block  to  many  more.  To  such, 
to  doubt  seems  worthier  than  to  believe,  and  many 
an  ignorant  disbeliever  looks  down  upon  the  wisest 
believers." 

Here  Nina  commented  to  herself:  "  But  not  half 
as  much  as  ignorant  believers  look  down  on  learned 
disbelievers." 

He  went  on:  "  Christianity  need  not  be  afraid  of 
Science;  but  oh,  my  friends,  do  not  cultivate  the 
disbelieving  habit  of  mind.  Shut  your  minds  to 
doubts  as  you  would  shut  your  ears  to  the  songs 
of  the  fabled  sirens  who  used  to  lure  the  mariners 
to  destruction.  When  you  read,  why  read  books 
that  encourage  that  habit  of  mind  ?  The  English 
literature  that  has  stood  the  test  of  time,  is  a  Chris- 
tian literature:  why  read  the  infidel  books  that 
bloom  to-day  to  die  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Poor  George  Eliot!"  said  Nina  to  herself.  "  Is 
your  place  so  insecure  ?" 

"  Do  not  seek  doubt,"  continued  the  preacher. 
"  Avoid  it.  Fear  it." 

"  Muriel  Calmire  is  too  brave  to  talk  like  that," 
said  Nina  to  herself. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

IN    ANOTHER   BOAT. 

THE  n'ight  after  he  left,  Muriel  took  the  boat 
about  ten  o'clock.  After  he  had  got  his  stateroom- 
key  and  disposed  of  his  traps,  he  walked  aft  to  in- 
dulge in  a  luxury  in  which  he  specially  delighted — 
a  cigar  by  the  stern-rail  of  a  vessel  leaving  a  wake 
of  Starlit  water.  Cigarettes,  Muriel  despised,  ex- 
cept with  the  sorbet  at  a  stag  dinner  and,  it  can- 
not be  denied,  at  some  dinners  which  were  not 
stag. 

Soon  after  the  cigar  was  in  successful  operation, 
there  came  up  in  his  mind,  associated  with  the  sky 
and  river,  the  sky  and  river  of  the  night  before. 
Nina's  pure  strong  face  was  opposite  him  in  the 
little  boat,  and  her  expression  of  perplexity  was 
melting  into  one  of  confidence,  with  occasional 
flashes  of  interest  and  sympathy. 

These  sweet  visions  were  interrupted  by  a  touch 
on  his  shoulder,  and  the  question  in  a  sweet  con- 
tralto voice: 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr. 
Muriel  Calmire  ?" 

He  turned  and  faced  Minerva  Granzine.  The 
velvet-brown  eyes  were  laughing,  so  were  the  soft 
pink  cheeks  with  their  dimples,  and  the  red  lips, 
which  were  parted;  and  the  perfect  teeth  were 
brighter,  perhaps,  for  the  night,  though  the  light 
from  the  cabin  striking  on  one  side  of  her  face 
gave  it  almost  its  daylight  radiance. 

305 


306  In  Another  Boat, 

Poor  Muriel,  although  he  deemed  himself  very 
deep  in  the  sex,  had  been  "  kicking  around  "  too 
much,  to  have  ever  had  the  long  and  constant 
association  with  a  noble  woman  which  makes  the 
presence  of  an  ignoble  one,  even  if  she  is  pretty, 
disagreeable.  Besides,  Minerva  was  by  no  means 
altogether  ignoble.  She  had  made  her  little  sacri- 
fices in  her  time,  was  capable  of  her  enthusiasms, 
and  unquestionably  had  her  charms.  Few  women, 
perhaps  no  young  and  good  women,  could  realize 
the  fascination  she  had  for  men.  And  probably 
few  men  could  themselves  quite  explain  it.  Their 
general  reason  was:  "  She's  so  awfully  pretty." 
But  that  was  the  smallest  part  of  it.  She  was  so 
awfully  feminine — not  in  the  miniature  negative 
way — not  in  merely  lacking  things  that  men  have, 
but  in  possessing  so  much  that  men  have  not. 
She  was  round  and  soft  and  tender  and  gentle 
and  affectionate  and,  under  it  all,  glowing  with 
passion.  Her  smile  was  a  banter,  her  glance  an 
appeal,  her  touch  a  thrill.  She  was  educated,  after 
a  fashion;  and  the  democratic  conditions  of  her 
village  had  thrown  her  with  several  men  of  pur- 
suits superior  to  her  father's — some  of  them  men 
not  without  reading  and  aspirations — a  young 
schoolmaster  or  two,  and  occasional  students  and 
professors  off  for  vacation.  She  had  been  engaged 
to  two  or  three  of  these,  as  well  as  to  one  or  two  of 
the  best  young  men  in  the  village,  and  all  her  suit- 
ors thought  her,  for  a  time  at  least,  the  very  pearl 
of  womanhood.  But  as  she  could  very  dearly  love 
a  good  many  people  at  once,  and  was  too  kind  not 
to  accept  every  offer  made  her  by  men  whom  she 


In  Another  Boat.  307 

really  liked,  and  as  many  offers  were  made,  there 
had  not  yet  been  time  for  any  engagement  to  re- 
sult in  marriage.  But  a  very  strange  thing  about 
her  was,  that  not  one  of  the  men  who  had  been  en- 
gaged to  her,  seemed  to  bear  her  any  ill  will.  She 
always  got  amicably  off  with  the  old  love  before 
getting  professedly  on  with  the  new.  She  was  too 
amiable  to  jilt  anybody.  Probably  she  let  it  be 
plain  to  each  one,  in  some  way,  before  she  installed 
his  successor,  that,  however  fascinating  she  might 
be  as  a  woman,  she  was  not  very  desirable  as  a 
wife.  Perhaps  this  was  the  easier  to  do  because, 
generally,  she  had  installed  men  of  high  require- 
ments— men  who  would  not  marry  where  they  did 
not  entirely  respect.  Yet  although  she  was,  to 
put  it  mildly,  so  "inconsequent,"  she  was  so  amia- 
ble withal,  so  charming,  so  kind  and  gentle,  that 
on  ceasing  to  respect  her,  and  being  unable  to  love 
without  respect,  one  could  not  help  still  feeling 
friendly  toward  her.  It  was  a  very  remarkable  fact 
that,  so  far,  all  the  men  who  had  been  very  inti- 
mate with  her,  were  among  the  best  of  those  within 
reach.  She  could  feel  the  heroic  merits  of  Clint 
Russell,  despite  his  profanity  and  his  superiority 
to  grammar,  and  had  stirred  his  big  heart;  and 
before,  even  Courtenay  had  felt  her  charm,  and  for 
a  while  was  devoted  to  her.  Even  since,  he  had 
seemed  to  take  a  pitying  interest  in  her. 

Among  the  men  whom  she  had  attracted, 
had  been,  a  few  months  before,  Muriel.  She 
had  found  him  a  very  odd  fish  among  the 
others:  he  had  not  resisted  her — no  man  of  flesh 
and  blood,  with  a  free  heart,  could  ;  he  had 


In  Another  Boat. 

become  extremely  intimate  with  her,  but  he  had 
never  professed  to  love  her.  With  all  his  strong 
passions  and  all  his  ideals,  he  was  very  little  of  a 
sentimentalist.  He  took  pleasure  wherever  he 
found  it,  and  this  soft  round  bright  unthinking 
creature  that  threw  herself  in  his  way,  was  pleas- 
ure; but  the  oft-imagined  lady  who  was  to  redeem 
and  inspire  his  life,  was  quite  another  thing,  though 
as  yet  a  very  varying  and  indefinite  one.  He  never 
mixed  the  two  for  an  instant,  though,  and  he  was 
too  straightforward  to  give  Minerva  any  notion 
that  he  did.  But  she  loved  him  in  her  way,  for 
the  time  being,  perhaps  more  than  she  had  loved 
anybody  else:  for,  not  to  speak  of  advantages  of 
person  and  position,  he  was  so  immensely  above 
her — above  any  young  man  she  had  known, for  that 
matter — in  rude  strength  of  character  and  intellect. 
He  was  mysterious  to  her  and,  despite  his  playful- 
ness, at  times  almost  awful.  And  probably  she 
thought  that  this  was  the  real  love,  as  she  had 
thought  many  times  before.  How  long  she  would 
continue  to  love  him,  or  anybody  else,  when  she 
had  begun,  was  more  apt  to  be  determined  by  the 
man  than  by  her:  she  was  always  ready  to  go  on 
loving.  But  what  the  "love"  of  such  a  creature 
is,  is  hard  to  make  out.  For  anything  that  appeals 
to  the  affections,  she  was  full  of  her  soft  warm 
passions.  A  year  before,  they  had  taken  the  direc- 
tion of  religion  and  she  had  joined  the  church,  and 
for  a  week  or  two  after  it,  was  as  devote  as  anybody; 
and  here  again  on  the  boat,  they  were  making  her 
radiant  before  the  eyes  of  Muriel  Calmire.  Although 
of  lateshehad  met  him  occasionally,  for  agood  while 


In  Another  Boat.  309 

she  had  not  seen  him  alone,  and  she  had  begun  to 
realize  the  fact  and  ponder  over  it  and  worry  just 
a  little.  It  may  be  remembered  that  on  meeting 
him  a  couple  of  months  before,  when  he  had  taken 
lunch  with  them,  she  had  found  something  to  blush 
about.  But  among  her  rather  unusual  character- 
istics, was  a  capacity  to  deliberately  say  or  do  a 
thing,  and  then  to  blush  over  it,  and  then  to  say  or 
do  it  again,  and  then  to  blush  over  it  again,  and 
so  on  interminably.  In  fact,  she  generally  did 
blush — she  was  blushing  now,  as  she  looked  up  at 
Muriel  with  her  bantering  smile. 

Promptly  it  drove  away  the  pure  vision  which 
had  been  softening  and  inspiring  him.  Away  deep 
ponderings  and  self  -  questionings  and  self  -  re- 
proaches! Up  surges  youth's  hot  blood!  Socrates 
could  make  Alcibiades  thoughtful,  but  he  could  not 
prevent  his  being  young. 

Muriel  rose  and  answered  Minerva's  mock-cere- 
monious question  in  the  same  vein: 

"  You  have  a  slave  of  that  name.  What  under 
heaven  brought  you  here?  I  didn't  notice  you 
coming  aboard,  or  on  the  train." 

"  I've  been  near  the  landing  all  day  with  Susie  Jan- 
ney,  and  I'm  going  down  to  New  York  with  them." 

"  Where  are  they  ?" 

"  Susie  and  her  mother  went  to  their  stateroom 
as  soon  as  they  came  on  board.  The  purser  gave 
me  one  all  to  myself  (He's  a  friend  of  mine),  and  it 
has  a  parlor,  too !  Won't  you  come  and  call  on  me? 
I've  nothing  to  do  but  sit  up  and  talk  with  you." 

"  '  Wot  larks  ! '"  he  ejaculated.  But  somehow, 
instead  of  attending  to  her  bantering  invitation,  he 
Continued:  "Won't  you  sit  down?" 


3  JO  In  Another  Boat. 

She  took  a  chair  a  step  off,  in  shadow,  and 
Muriel  placed  his  beside  her.  No  one  was  near 
them.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  said: 

"  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  ?" 

Muriel  answered  truthfully:  "I  don't  know." 

"  You  didn't  want  to  come." 

"  That's  not  so." 

He  was  perfectly  sincere  again.  He  had  wanted 
to  go  several  times,  but,  somehow,  his  desire  had 
not  been  strong  enough  or  steady  enough  to  send 
him.  The  obstacles  had  perhaps  been  greater  than 
usual,  or  even  than  he  quite  appreciated. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  come  ?" 

"Well,  we've  had  company  at  our  house,  and 
Uncle  Grand  has  had  lots  of  things  for  me  to 
do.  He's  been  away  a  good  while,  you  know. 
And  I've  been  away  some  myself,  too." 

"Yes?" 

One  of  Minerva's  charms  was,  that  she  never 
made  herself  disagreeable.  When  other  women 
would  get  jealous,  she  only  got  sad  and  went  on 
loving — somebody  else.  But  she  was  not  yet  even 
at  the  point  where  other  women  get  jealous.  The 
excuses  were  good  enough — good  enough,  at  all 
events,  for  an  indolent  and  forgiving  nature  to  ac- 
cept in  preference  to  disagreeable  conclusions. 

Nobody  was  near  them.  The  side  toward  Muriel 
was  in  shadow.  She  laid  her  arm  on  his  knee.  The 
night  was  warm  for  October,  and  the  sleeve  was 
loose.  What  a  wondrous  great  white  arm  it  was! 
The  wrist  was  a  little  large,  but  the  hand  was 
small,  and  the  taper  up  from  the  round  wrist  was 
perfect.  Why  did  not  Muriel  seize  it? 


In  Another  Boat.  3 1 1 

"  Oh,  I  do  so  love  starlight  nights,"  said  the  girl. 
"  The  moon  is  such  a  tell-tale." 

"  Yes,  she's  an  old  maid,  you  know,"  said  Muriel. 

"  That's  what  I'm  going  to  be." 

"What?" 

"  At  least — you  know,"  and  her  ready  blushes 
came  again.  "  I'm  never  going  to  marry  any- 
body." 

"  Bet  you  ten  to  one  !"  said  Muriel. 

"Well,  it  won't  be  you." 

"  I  never  said  it  would." 

Then,  seized  perhaps  by  a  bit  of  compunction  for 
his  bluntness,  he  did  lay  his  hand  kindly  on  the 
lovely  arm.  How  cool  it  was  !  If  the  night  had 
been  cold,  the  arm  would  have  been  warm:  such 
perfect  balance  had  Nature  given  the  rare  creature- 

"What  makes  you  bother  your  head  about  such 
things,  anyhow,  Minerva?  You'd  never  be  happy 
married.  Your  heart's  too  big."  Then  he  felt  a 
little  more  compunction,  and  did  not  help  matters 
much  by  adding:  "You  know  you'd  soon  tire  of 
any  man." 

"  Not  of  any  man." 

"  How  many  have  you  tired  of  already  ?" 

"  Never  of  the  right  one." 

If  she  had  ever  tired  of  any  man,  and  probably 
she  had,  the  man  had  never  been  sure  of  it. 

"  Yes  !  Your  tiring  of  any  one  proves  that  he  is 
not  the  right  one.  But  the  right  one  doesn't  exist; 
you  don't  want  to  tie  yourself  up.  What's  the  use 
of  bothering  about  it  ?" 

"  None,  perhaps.  At  least  I'm  not  sure  there  is. 
You're  none  of  you  worth  it."  And  she  laughed, 


3!2  In  Another  Boat. 

but  in  a  way  that  he  thought  of  afterwards.  She 
had  put  him  a  little  on  his  mettle,  though. 

"  No,  we're  a  poor  lot.  What  should  we  do  with- 
out the  women  to  keep  us  straight?" 

"Yes,  if  you'd  only  condescend  to  deserve  all  we 
do  for  you.  We  don't  spare  ourselves." 

"  Or  us  either,  when  you're  inclined  to  tease  us 
a  little,  do  you  ?"  and  he  gave  the  arm  a  little  pinch. 

"Don't.     You  hurt.     You  make  it  all  red." 

And  she  raised  it  opposite  his  face,  while  the 
sleeve  fell  back  to  the  dimpled  elbow.  White 
things  showed  distinct  enough  in  the  mixed  lights 
of  the  boat  and  the  stars. 

"  Pretty  thing  !"  said  Muriel.     "  Don't  tire  it." 

And  he  took  it  by  the  wrist.  A  month  before,  he 
would  have  kissed  it.  Now  he  gently  bent  it  down 
again  on  to  his  own  knee,  where,  after  a  second,  he 
relinquished  it,  saying: 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  walk  the  upper  deck  a 
little  and  see  the  stars  overhead  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  splendid  !  Let's  go  this 
way." 

And  she  sprang  up  the  ladder  before  him,  put- 
ting her  little  boots  almost  into  his  face. 

"  Hm  !"  said  he  to  himself  as  he  rushed  up  after 
her. 

Then  she  took  his  arm.  What  a  difference  there 
is  in  the  way  women  do  it !  One  makes  herself  an 
inconvenience,  another  an  inspiration,  most  pro- 
duce no  effect  at  all.  Minerva's  hand  never  rested 
on  a  man's  arm  without  his  realizing  that  she  was 
a  woman,  and  his  realizing  only  the  charming 
features  of  the  fact. 


In  A  not  her  Boat.  3 1 3 

But  she  put  more  than  her  hand  on  Muriel's  arm, 
and  her  electric  form  brushed  against  him  at  every 
step.  More  than  once  he  felt  a  glowing  conscious- 
ness of  it,  but  some  half-realized  reminiscence  that 
was  not  of  the  spirit  of  this  night,  came  and  calmed 
him.  Despite  his  slowness  in  great  issues,  or  rather 
issues  that  he  realized  as  great,  under  most  circum- 
stances he  was  careless  of  consequences,  and  eager 
to  seize  the  joy  of  the  moment.  He  had  no  clear 
realization  of  the  counter-influences  working  within 
him  now,  and  he  felt  half  disgusted  with  the  quies- 
cence produced  in  him  by  the  play  of  opposing 
forces. 

The  main  thing  which  distracted  him  from  the 
glowing  ecstasy  beside  him,  was  a  want  that  had 
never  obtruded  itself  before:  he  had  always  taken 
her  for  what  she  was,  been  glad  enough  to  find  her, 
and  thought  in  a  healthy,  though  perhaps  a  danger- 
ous, way,  only  of  what  the  moment  offered.  But 
lately  a  new  habit — a  new  requirement,  had  grown 
up  within  him — faint,  little  more  than  rudimentary, 
but  distinct  and  delicious  beyond  anything  he  had 
known  before.  Sometimes  when  his  soul  was  filled 
with  the  awful  beauty  of  the  night,  and  when  he 
had  marveled  and  triumphed  in  the  sense  that  this 
speck  upon  a  speck — this  brain  of  man  upon  the 
earth,  had  learned  a  word  or  two  of  the  infinite 
histories  of  the  stars, — sometimes  when  he  had 
caught  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  philosophy  to 
which  those  stupendous  facts  are  the  first  step- 
ping-stones, and  all  that  was  highest  in  his  being 
had  been  filled  with  a  sense  of  the  Infinite  Energy 
and  the  Infinite  Law,  he  had  lately  learned  the 


314  /«  Another  Boat. 

joy  of  supporting  a  woman's  tender  steps  to  those 
.heights  where  most  souls  must  stand  alone,  and  he 
had  had  some  foretaste  of  the  sympathy  which,  at 
a  word,  brings  the  companion-soul  into  the  com- 
munion of  that  lofty  worship. 

And  now  !  Here  he  was  under  the  holy  night 
with  this  marvel  of  exquisite  flesh  ! 

He  had  much  reason  to  feel  a  certain  chivalrous 
responsibility  for  her  entertainment,  and,  how- 
ever much,  at  any  time,  he  might  be  embarrassed 
and  perplexed,  it  was  never  difficult  for  him  to 
talk,  provided  the  embarrassment  and  perplex- 
ity were  not  thrust  upon  him  suddenly.  Now 
he  made  it  pleasant  for  Minerva  and  even  for 
himself,  in  the  face  of  distractions  new  to  his 
experience.  When,  at  moments,  he  forgot  both 
attractions  and  distractions,  his  mind  might 
glow  up  into  some  comment,  perhaps  on  the 
infinity  around  them,  that  brought  him  a 
sense  of  chilling  emptiness  in  her;  but  that 
for  her,  opened  up  vistas  of  thought  by  which 
she  was  puzzled  and  awed  —  awed,  that  is, 
as  far  as  she  was  capable  of  awe,  which  was 
farther  than  are  some  women  who  have  studied 
enough  to  dry  up  such  rich  juices  as  ran  in 
her.  She  was  capable  of  enough  of  it  to  often  find 
herself  lifted,  when  with  Muriel,  to  planes  that 
she  was  not  conscious  of  with  anybody  else,  and  to 
have  her  passion  burn  all  the  stronger  in  their 
purer  air. 

For  an  hour  he  walked  glowing  and  languishing 
amid  her  intoxications.  Then  she  stopped,  saying: 
"I'm  tired.  Take  me  to  my  stateroom." 


In  A  not  her  Boat.  3  *  5 

At  the  ladder,  she  pushed  him  playfully  and 
said:  "Go  first  and  catch  me." 

He  obeyed  mechanically.  Before  she  touched 
the  deserted  lower  deck,  she  threw  herself  back- 
ward into  his  arms.  As  they  closed  around  her, 
his  soul  was  full  of  hot  battle.  But  in  a  moment, 
there  came  into  his  quick  imagination  a  beautiful 
and  noble  face,  whose  eyes  looked  trustingly  into 
his,  as  they  had  looked  the  night  before. 

His  arms  fell,  he  bade  Minerva  an  abrupt  good- 
night, and  to  the  bow  of  the  boat  stalked  the 
puritan  Nina  had  seen  on  the  great  staircase  at 
Fleuvemont. 

There  he  stood  silent  while  the  air,  resisting  the 
boat's  swift  motion,  fanned  his  hot  face.  His 
pulses,  quelled  for  a  moment,  were  beating  with 
redoubled  fury.  But  soon  the  cool  air  and  a 
revery  into  which  he  gradually  subsided,  calmed 
them. 

The  moon  was  just  rising.  A  broad  light  trem- 
bled over  the  ripples  before  him.  The  hills  were 
transfigured  into  mountains,  towering,  immutable, 
calm  ;  some  late  cottager's  light  on  the  bank  made 
human  the  stupendous  scene.  It  interfused  itself 
with  his  own  being.  Though  he  stood  long,  he 
never  afterward  could  recall  anything  that  passed 
in  his  soul  except  a  consciousness  of  the  omnipo- 
tent loveliness,  a  strange  feeling  that  it  and  he  and 
Nina  all  were  one,  and  his  saying  to  himself,  as  he 
turned  to  seek  his  rest: 

"  I  love  her!  Thank  God!  I  love  her!  I  love 
her.'" 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

GOING    WOOING. 

OF  course  a  readiness,  despite  his  unorthodoxy, 
f.o  say  "  Thank  God,"  or  to  use  that  venerable 
name  in  less  reverent  ways,  was  not  the  only 
inconsistency  in  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire.  Consistency 
was  apt  to  interfere  with  his  ease,  and,  it  may 
be  suspected,  he  dearly  loved  his  ease.  Not 
only  did  he  love  it  for  his  big  and  handsome 
earthly  tabernacle,  but  also  for  the  copious  and 
not  altogether  ungraceful  imagination  therein  en- 
shrined. Although  on  calm  nights  he  could  dis- 
course to  Miss  Nina  Wahring  on  the  infinite 
Law  that  no  subterfuge  can  escape,  and  although 
he  did  not  number  Ser  Tito  Melema  or  Mr. 
Fred  Vincy  among  his  progenitors,  if  his  blood 
had  come  through  them,  his  imagination  could 
not  have  been  more  incapable  than  it  was  of  pic- 
turing the  same  evils  resulting  from  his  own  acts 
that  he  knew  often  resulted  from  the  same  acts 
performed  by  other  people.  Calmire  had  more 
than  once  been  anxious  over  this,and  remonstrated 
with  him  in  some  such  phrase  as: 

"You  believe  in  the  unerringness  of  natural  law, 
I  suppose?" 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  Muriel  would  very  properly 
reply. 

316 


Going  Wooing.  3*7 

And  then  Calmire  would  utter,  with  a  sadness 
which  the  boy  thought  a  good  deal  of  a  bore,  some 
such  phrases  as: 

"  Yes,  evidently,  in  all  lives  but  your  own.  It's 
sad  that  there,  you  can't  learn  it  from  books.  It's 
a  big  truth,  but  there's  no  royal  road  to  it.  When 
there's  temptation  before  him,  every  young  fellow 
believes  in  at  least  one  miracle — that  the  laws  ot 
Nature  are  going  to  be  suspended  in  his  case." 

It  was  now  all  that  Muriel  could  do  to  keep 
himself  away  from  Fleuvemont.  A  month  earlier, 
with  the  same  eagerness  in  his  heart,  he  would 
have  rushed  back  as  a  matter  of  course,  postpon- 
ing his  business  and,  if  need  be,  cutting  his  social 
engagements;  but  now,  somehow,  there  was  a 
new  conscience  in  him.  By  a  display  of  energy 
which,  if  it  was  not  unnatural  with  him,  was  cer- 
tainly unusual,  he  finished  his  business  in  half  the 
time  he  expected.  He  also  found  that  his  visit 
could  as  well  be  made  earlier  and  shorter  than  at 
first  intended,  and  within  a  week  he  was  on  his  way 
back  to  Fleuvemont  on  the  same  train  that  had  taken 
Nina  there  nearly  three  months  before.  A  block  on 
the  road  detained  it  several  hours.  Muriel  had  not 
expected  to  leave  New  York  so  soon,  and  he  was  so 
preoccupied  with  what  the  night  on  the  boat  going 
down  had  revealed  to  him,  that  he  forgot  to  tele- 
graph for  a  trap  to  meet  him  at  the  station.  No  pub- 
lic conveyance  was  there,  but  he  hardly  noticed  the 
fact.  He  gave  his  hand-bag  to  the  station-keeper, 
told  him  that  he  would  send  for  it  and  his  trunk 
in  the  morning,  and  started  off  up  the  hill  through 
the  moonlight  with  the  gait  of  a  young  panther. 


S1^  Going  Wooing. 

His  heart  was  full  of  singing  birds,  as  some  good 
old  poet  hath  it,  although  the  voice  which  gave 
the  songs  utterance,  as  he  swung  himself  along 
could  have  issued  only  from  the  throat  of  a  strong 
and  happy  man. 

At  the  house,  he  saw  lights  in  the  ladies'  win- 
dows, and  in  the  library,  which  was  habitually  re- 
served to  the  master's  use.  A  servant  was  closing 
the  front  door. 

"  Has  Miss  Wahring  gone  to  her  room  ?"  was 
Muriel's  first  greeting. 

"  She  went  an  hour  ago,  sir." 

"  My  uncle  is  up,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  just  left  him  in  the  library,  writing." 

Muriel  started  for  the  library,  whence  Calmire, 
having  heard  his  voice,  was  coming  out  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh,  Muriel,"  he  said;  "  I  did  not  expect  you  so 
soon.  I  was  just  trying  to  write  to  you." 

"'  Trying  to  write,'  and  to  me.  That's  good! 
Why,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Come  in  and  sit  down." 

Calmire  waited  to  say  to  the  servant:  "  Tell 
Pierre  not  to  go  to  bed  until  I  tell  him  to.  Leave 
word  at  the  stables  that  I  shall  want  to  catch  the 
down  train  at  2.17."  Then  he  followed  Muriel 
into  the  library,  closed  the  door,  took  a  seat  op- 
posite the  young  man  on  the  other  side  of  the 
smouldering  fire,  and  began: 

"Well,  Mr.  Stubbs,  we're  in  a  scrape." 

Because  Muriel  never  was  a  little  fat  fellow,  but 
a  lank  and  rather  puny  child,  Calmire  long  ago, 
on  the  principle  of  lucus  a  non,  had  nicknamed  him 
Mr.  Stubbs.  The  name  had  gradually  fallen  into 


Going  Wooing.  3X9 

disuse,  but  on  occasions  of  hilarity  or  distress — 
of  any  considerable  feeling,  in  fact,  it  was  apt  to 
come  to  the  surface. 

"  What  is  it,  Uncle  Grand  ?" 
"  Do  you  want  to  marry  Minerva  Granzine  ?" 
Muriel  shivered,  and    then   his   blood  was    like 
flame.     At  the  same  moment  he  felt  that  sinking 
weakness    that    sometimes    comes   before    battle. 
He    would    have    given    his    right    hand    to    be 
away,  but  would  have  given   his  head  rather  than 
go.     He  did  have  cause  for  fear,  for  although  he 
had  controlled   himself  a  week  earlier,  there  had 
been  times,  before  he  knew  Nina  Wahring,  when 
he  had  not.     He  managed  to  say: 
"  Certainly  not.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 
"  Because  her  mother  came  here   to-day  to  tell 
me  that  it  is  time — high  time,  that  she  were  mar- 
ried to  somebody,  and  that  you  are  the  man." 

A  cold  perspiration  burst  out  over  the  youth,  and 
he  remembered  the  prophecy  regarding  the  wretch 
who  should  pray  that  the  mountains  might  fall  on 
him  and  hide  him.  Then  between  his  ancestors 
began  the  conflict  in  his  soul  that  Calmire  had 
once  warned  him  of.  Should  he  ignore  these 
responsibilities,  or  should  he  meet  them  ?  But 
though  he  did  often  shrink  before  possible  con- 
sequences, it  was  not  his  habit  to  deliberate  over 
moral  questions,  except  in  the  abstract,  and  it 
was  his  habit  to  trust  his  uncle.  He  had  hardly 
grasped  the  situation  before  he  exclaimed: 

"  Great  God,  Uncle  Grand  !     What  can  I  do  ?" 
"  If  you  want  me  to  answer  that,"  said  Calmire, 


320  Going  Wooing. 

"of  course  I  must  know  your  side  of  the  story  too. 
I've  only  heard  Mrs.  Granzine's." 

Muriel  sat  silent,  leaning  forward,  his  head  down, 
his  forearms  on  his  knees,  his  han^s  clasped  in 
hopeless  perplexity  and  dread.  Shame  was  cov- 
ered out  of  sight  by  the  heavier  emotions,  but 
through  his  brain  rushed  a  dozen  mean  schemes  of 
escape,  which  he  had  not  strength  enough  left  either 
to  harbor  or  to  scorn. 

"Do  you  want  my  hand  in  this  business?"  con- 
tinued Calmire. 

"  Do  I  what  ?  Why,  Uncle  Grand,  I—"  and  he 
could  go  no  farther. 

"  Because,"  calmly  resumed  Calmire,  "while  the 
interests  of  the  family  are,  to  some  extent,  my  in- 
terests, and  while  your  interests  are  certainly  mine 
as  far  as  you  are  willing  they  should  be,  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  seem  intrusive." 

"  Oh!  bother  all  that!  You  know  perfectly  well 
that  if  I'd  known  the  trouble  first,  I'd  have  come  to 
you  with  it." 

Calmire's  face  beamed.  He  drew  up  his  chair, 
and  put  his  hand  on  Muriel's  knee,  saying: 

"  I  hoped  so,  my  son,  I  hoped  so.  I'm  very  glad. 
I've  known  more  than  one  young  fellow  come  to 
grief  by  taking  a  different  course." 

"  That's  because  most  old  fellows  are  such 
fools,"  was  Muriel's  reply. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Calmire,  "  the  old  fools  beget 

the  young  ones,  and  then  have  no  mercy  for  their 

folly.     Now  tell  me    who's  to    blame  for   this,  if 

that  question  is  not  too  much  for  human  nature  ?" 

•Muriel  had  recovered  himself  a  little  under  Cal- 


Going  Wooing.  32  r 

mire's  handling.  He  was  almost  nonplussed  by  it, 
however,  and  let  two  or  three  thoughts  shape  and 
oppose  themselves  in  his  bewildered  brain,  before 
he  burst  out : 

"Why  don't  you  blame  me,  and  raise  an  infernal 
row?" 

"  There  seems  to  be  row  enough  already.  Na- 
ture attends  to  that  side  of  the  case  without  our 
help.  I  prefer  to  take  care  of  the  other  side  if  I 
can,  and  keep  the  misery  down.  There's  sure  to 
be  enough  without  any  from  me.  Now,  if  you 
want  me  to  do  anything,  you've  got  to  confide  in 
me.  Do  you  care  to  ?" 

"  You're  good,  as  always.  But  this  is  not  a 
matter  of  my  confidence  alone." 

"  I  trust  I  can  appreciate  the  reticence  of  a 
gentleman,"  said  Calmire.  "  But  I  don't  see  that 
it's  called  for  here.  Of  course  you'll  acquit  me 
of  any  idle  curiosity:  but  I've  heard  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine's  statement  of  the  case,  and  if  I'm  to  have  any 
such  opinions  as  the  subject  demands,  I  must  hear 
yours." 

"But,  Uncle  Grand,  I've  been  told,  by  yourself 
for  aught  I  know,  that  it's  a  man's  duty  to  lie, 
even,  rather  than  betray  the  confidence  of  a  woman." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  ever  took  it  upon  myself  to 
pronounce  on  that  question.  But  don't  you  see 
that  it  doesn't  apply  to  this  case  ?  The  revelation, 
if  it  be  one,  has  already  been  made  by  the  other 
side." 

"  By  her  consent,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Her  distinct  assertion." 

Muriel   paused.     Without  the   little  stimulus  of 


322  Going  Wooing. 

discussion,  he  could  not  fix  his  thoughts.  At  the 
first  mention  of  Minerva's  name,  Nina's  image  had 
seemed  to  come  up  in  his  mind  even  before  Miner- 
va's; and  now  it  kept  thrusting  itself  into  all  the 
things  he  tried  to  shape,  and  confused  them.  He 
realized  with  perfect  distinctness,  or  thought  he 
did,  that  all  the  possible  joy  of  life  had  been 
snatched  from  his  grasp,  and  his  future  loomed 
up  black  and  terrible.  Yet  he  was  hardly  con- 
scious of  any  pain.  He  tried  to  grapple  the  facts 
and  group  them  into  intelligible  shape.  But  he 
was  unequal  to  it.  He  got  up,  walked  to  and  fro 
two  or  three  times,  stopped,  and  leaned  on  the 
mantel. 

Calmire,  to  help  him  on,  spoke  again: 

"  To  come  to  the  point,  do  you  care  to  tell  me, 
without  details,  whether  she  led  you  on  ?  It's  a 
tough  question,  but  you're  honest." 

Muriel  hesitated,  and  at  length  said: 

"  I  must  say  I  think  she  did." 

"Was  the  first  thing  that  would  not  have  taken 
place  if  a  third  person  had  been  present,  her  doing 
or  yours  ?" 

"  Hers!" 

"  You've  been  to  her  house,  of  course  ?  Was  her 
mother  surprised  to  see  you  ?" 

"  She  didn't  seem  to  be." 

"  Always  pleased  to  have  you  there  ?" 

"  Well,  it  did  strike  me  that  she  was." 

"And  she  left  you  alone?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  kept  doing  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 


Going  Wooing.  323 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Calmire,  settling  back  in  his 
chair  in  the  comfortable  way  that  naturally  follows 
the  demonstration  of  one's  own  prescience. 

A  pause.  All  sorts  of  reminiscences  and  specula- 
tions began  running  through  Muriel's  brain.  Pic- 
tures, now  loathsome,  whatever  they  had  been  be- 
fore, in  which  the  pretty  girl  had  borne  a  part, 
mingling  themselves  with  others  more  loathsome 
still,  of  scenes  yet  to  come  in  which  she  might  bear 
a  part  too.  Yet  of  all  these,  he  seemed  to  be  a 
mere  unmoved  spectator.  Calmire  called  him 
back  to  himself. 

"  Now  one  or  two  other  things.  Did  you  ever 
profess  to  love  her?  Pardon  me,  I  don't  believe 
you  ever  did.  Of  course  you  praised  her  beauty, 
and  fed  her  vanity.  You  never  talked  of  mar- 
riage ?" 

"Of  course  I  didn't,"  said  Muriel,  looking  into 
Calmire's  eyes  almost  indignantly  and  then  settling 
himself  into  another  chair. 

"Hm!  It  didn't  seem  possible  that  you  had; 
but — '  Calmire  paused  and  pondered. 

"  Had  you  ever  suspected  her  character  before 
she  led  you  on?  What  was  your  opinion  of  her 
when  you  began  philandering  about  her?" 

"That  she  was  awfully  pretty." 

"  Yes,  that  started  you.  But  did  you  believe  her 
an  innocent  girl  ?" 

"  Probably  I'd  have  kept  away  from  her  if  I'd 
felt  sure  she  was." 

"  What?     If  she  had  seriously  attracted  you  ?" 

"  But  she  only  attracted  one  side  of  me.  There's 
not  much  of  her  but  her  beauty." 


324  Going  Wooing. 

Another  pause,  in  which  Muriel  realized  that  he 
was  in  pain — horrible  pain.  A  woman  of  whom 
there  was  much  besides  her  beauty,  filled  his  soul; 
and  she  was  lost  to  him!  And  then  the  phantasma- 
goria in  his  brain  began  again.  But  in  another 
moment  he  felt  the  torture  renewed,  and  then  he 
burst  out: 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  Haven't  I  fled  temptation- 
fled  this  very  woman's  temptations,  and  all  for 
chis  !" 

"  Muriel,  Nature  doesn't  play  laps  and  slams. 
Each  game  counts  by  itself."  The  statement  was 
couched  in  terms  singularly  inconsistent  with  the 
serious  tones  in  which  it  was  uttered,  but  it  fitted 
the  occasion. 

"Uncle  Grand,"  cried  the  boy,  "I  love  Nina!" 
and  he  went  over  and  put  his  arm  on  Calmire's 
shoulder  and  leaned  his  head  upon  it. 

Calmire  gently  passed  his  hand  over  Muriel's 
hair  as  if  it  had  been  that  of  a  woman  or  a  child. 
He  said:  "  Yes,  it  is  hard,  very  hard.  But  how  you 
young  people  do  jump  to  conclusions  !  This  mat- 
ter is  just  opened,  and  yet  you  regard  it  as  finished. 
Of  course  I  can't  tell  how  it's  going  to  turn  out, 
but  you  assume  at  once  that  you  can.  We  won't 
give  up  yet." 

Muriel  straightened  himself,  and  went  back  to 
his  chair,  saying: 
"What's  my  duty?" 

"  It's  too  soon  to  tell  about  that.     One  thing  is 
plain:  you've  got  to  clear  out." 
"  What  ?     Run  away  ?" 

"  Keep  out  of  the  way — out  of  my  way,  if  you  pre- 
fer." 


Going  Wooing.  325 

"But  here's  a  responsibility  that  maybe  mine. 
flfy  child!  And,"  he  said  in  a  lower  tone  that  was 
inexpressibly  sad  and  bitter,  "  I've  longed  for  chil- 
dren as  women  do!  Well,"  he  added  after  a  mo- 
ment, "at  least  I  don't  propose  to  shirk." 

"Poor  fellow!  Of  course  you  don't.  But  the  first 
thing,  is  to-find  out  what's  the  best  way  to  handle 
the  situation.  If  you  want  me  to  do  that,  clear 
out  and  leave  it  to  me  for  the  present.  I  don't  want 
you  within  the  reach  of  these  people.  You're  too 
complex:  there's  no  knowing  what  you'll  do.  You 
may  marry  the  woman  or  murder  her.  When  I 
want  you,  I  can  send  for  you." 

"  I  must  go  anyhow."  His  frightened  conscience 
said:  "  I  can't  face  Nina's  awful  eyes." 

In  a  moment  he  went  on:  "  But  at  least  give  me 
some  idea  of  what  you  think  best  to  do." 

"  I  don't  know  m3rself.  The  case  is  so  com- 
plicated, I  want  time  to  study  it." 

"  Ought  I  to  marry  her  ?" 

"  Ought  you  to  desert  it?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Of  course  I  could  provide 
for  it." 

"  Provide  what  ?     The  care  its  father  owes  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  what  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  ?"  cried  the 
boy  in  his  agony. 

"  You  can't  do  anything  very  satisfactory.  But 
you  must  do  the  best  you  can.  I'm  not  sure 
that  marrying  the  mother  or  deserting  the  child 
are  the  only  alternatives.  And  I'm  not  even  sure 
which  of  the  two  is  the  worse,  even  for  the  child. 
It  is  better  that  a  child  should  be  at  peace  among 
strangers  than  in  a  discordant  home.  The  plain 
truth  is,  Muriel,  that  you  have  taken  the  respon- 


326  Going  Wooing. 

sibility  of  the  life  of  a  human  being  for  whom  it  is 
impossible  for  you  to  provide  what  every  human 
being  needs — and  what  your  having  been  without, 
has  had  much  to  do  with  bringing  you  just  where 
you  are." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Grand,  I  took  no  responsibility.  I 
didn't  think,  I  didn't  realize,  and  here  I'm  hemmed 
in  by  hell-fire  on  every  side  !" 

"  There's  no  need  of  my  preaching  to  you,  my 
son;  but  I  must  tell  you  that  you  are  learning 
what  I  knew  you  would  have  to  learn  sooner  or 
later — that  most  of  our  great  disasters  come  from 
crimes  that  the  codes  don't  deal  with." 

"  You  think  me  a  criminal,  then  ?" 

"Certainly  not  by  the  world's  present  standards. 
And  after  what  you  have  told  me,  I'm  not  disposed 
to  heap  unmeasured  blame  upon  you  myself.  I 
know  what  temptation  is,  and  I  know  what  youth 
is.  But  I  think  the  world  ought  to  judge  more 
by  consequences.  Certainly,  by  that  standard, 
such  an  act,  instead  of  being  omitted  from  most 
codes,  would  be  placed  among  the  gravest  crimes. 
But  I  don't  want  to  add  my  preaching  to  the  other 
bad  results;  I  only  want  to  help  you  deal  with 
them." 

"Well,  anything  but  this  vague  misery.  For 
pity's  sake  let  me  give  it  some  shape.  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  fight  definite  prospects  better.  Tell  me 
what  you  think  now  about  my  marrying  her." 

"If  I  were  her  father,  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
should  want  you  to." 

"  But  they  want  me  to.  You  can't  put  yourself 
in  their  place,  and  they  surely  have  some  rights  in 
the  matter." 


Going  Wooing.  327 

"Why,  Muriel,  self-sacrifice  is  a  new  role  for 
you  !"  exclaimed  Calmire. 

"  If  I'm  to  lose  what  I  most  care  for,  what  does 
the  rest  matter?" 

"  You're  a  boy!  otherwise  you  would  never  think 
that  'the  rest'  is  of  no  importance." 

After  a  little  silence,  Calmire  said,  half  musingly, 
"  No.  If  the  girl  were  my  daughter,  I  don't  think 
I  would  let  her  marry  you,  at  least  now." 

"What?     I  could  be  good  to  her." 

"  You  could  resolve  to  be.  But  you're  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  keep  such  a  resolve,  at  least 
among  the  men  who  could  make  it." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Grand,  I'm  not  such  a  bad  fellow." 

"  No.  You're  rather  a  good  fellow,  or  you  would 
not  entertain  these  ideas.  But  you're  a  candid 
fellow,  and  an  irritable  one.  You'd  sting  her  to 
death  without  intending  it:  provided  her  counter- 
stings  did  not  kill  you  first.  Your  home  would  be 
Hell  on  earth.  She'd  probably  leave  it." 

"  Well,  what  difference  would  that  make  to  me?" 

"  To  you  ?     Why,  you're  proud  !" 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been." 

"  There  you  go  again  !  You're  proud,  I  tell  you. 
Do  you  suppose  that  anything  that  doesn't  kill  or 
maim,  can  change  a  man's  character  in  an  hour?" 

Muriel  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  said : 

"  This  thing  makes  of  me  a  maimed  man.  I 
shall  never  get  over  it." 

"Yes,  you  will.  I  meant  physical  maiming:  I've 
seldom  known  anybody  not  to  get  over  any  trouble 
unless  he  died  of  it."  And  there  was  a  reminiscent 
sadness  in  his  tone  that  went  far  to  contradict  his 
assertion.  "  I  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  went  on, 


328  Going  Wooing. 

"that  people  are  always  the  same  after  great 
catastrophes  as  before  them.  Of  course,  they're 
changed,  but  not  half  as  much  as  you  suppose,  and 
it  takes  time  for  even  that.  But  festering  wounds 
kill :  if  they  don't,  they  stop  festering.  This  one 
is  not  going  to  kill  you  :  you  don't  come  of  stock 
that  suffering  kills."  And  there  was  again  a  touch 
of  melancholy  in  the  tone  that  uttered  the  boast. 

"And  there's  Johnny!"  said  Muriel  after  a  mo- 
ment. "  Do  you  suppose  he'll  want  to  fight?  He's 
a  gentleman,  whatever  his  parents  are,  and  I'll  fight 
him  if  he  wants  to,  and  let  him  kill  me.  That 
would  settle  the  whole  miserable  business." 

"  No  it  wouldn't,"  said  Calmire,  "  not  by  a  great 
deal.  But  Johnny's  above  all  that.  His  early  edu- 
cation was  not  in  a  fighting  community,  as  yours 
was." 

"  No,  and  his  character  isn't  what  mine  is  either," 
ejaculated  Muriel  in  a  tone  of  regret.  It  was  the 
first  confession  of  inferiority  that  Calmire  had  ever 
heard  the  boy  make. 

"  Now  lie  down  on  my  lounge  and  go  to  sleep," 
he  said.  "  You're  gaping  now.  It's  lucky  that  we 
Calmires  can  sleep  when  we  need  to.  That's  one 
reason  we  don't  die  before  we're  ready;  sometimes 
even  when  we  are  ready.  I'll  tell  you  in  an  hour 
what  you've  got  to  do  next." 

He  flung  an  afghan  over  the  boy's  feet,  left  the 
room,  and  afterward  was  surprised  to  find  that  he 
had  locked  the  door  behind  him,  as  if  he  had  had 
some  sub-conscious  idea  of  keeping  the  secret 
safe. 


CHAPTER   XXXI, 

BANISHED. 

CALMIRE  went  into  the  dining-room,  rang  for 
Pierre,  and  ordered  him: 

"  Have  a  bottle  of  Burgundy,  some  cold  meat,  and 
something  to  make  it  taste  good,  here  in  an  hour. 
Mr.  Muriel  is  going  back  in  the  2.17  train.  By  the 
way,  roll  up  a  couple  of  sandwiches  for  him,  in 
case  he  should  not  care  to  eat  before  starting. 
And  don't  go  into  the  library.  He's  asleep  there." 

"Pardon,  M'sieul  Will  not  M'sieti  take  some 
supper?  John  said  M'sieu  would  take  the  train." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  go.  Mr.  Muriel  has  come,  and 
he  will  go.  He  is  younger  than  you  and  I,  Pierre." 

And  Calmire  laughed,  not  entirely  at  the  little 
pleasantry  which  he  allowed  himself  with  the  old 
retainer,  who  had  followed  him  from  Switzerland 
nearly  thirty  years  before  ;  but  partly  from  the 
cheerful  consciousness  that  he  had  quite  involun- 
tarily started  among  the  servants  the  impression 
that  Muriel  was  hurrying  away  to  attend  to  impor- 
tant business  for  his  uncle. 

While  Pierre  thought  his  master  was  laughing 
with  him,  the  master  was  thinking  to  himself  :  "If 
the  beggar  would  only  get  his  impression  to  Nina's 
ears!  I  shall  not  hurry  myself  to  breakfast  in  the 

morning  for  the  sake  of  preventing  him."     Then  he 

329 


33°  Banished. 

said  aloud:  "By  the  way,  Pierre,  as  I'm  to  be  up 
so  very  late,  if  I  succeed  in  sleeping  over  in  the 
morning,  make  my  apologies  to  the  ladies,  and 
explain  matters." 

"  Parfaitement,  M'steu." 

Months  before,in  a  talk  with  Nina,  Calmire  had 
declared  himself  a  superstitious  man;  and  he  often 
half-humorously  admitted  himself  superstitious  re- 
garding the  truth.  Some  people  would  think  that 
that  attitude  was  illustrated  now,  as  he  said  to 
himself :  "  How  am  I  going  to  explain  Muriel's 
absence  to  Nina?  She's  such  a  penetrative  minx! 
Yet  suppose  that  I  could  lie  to  her,  and  she  should 
believe  ic:  how  do  I  know  that  it  would  be  for  the 
best?  In  these  complexities,  how  can  I  arrogate 
to  myself  power  to  see  beyond  the  end  of  my  nose  ? 
How  can  I  tell  whether  a  lie  will  do  more  good 
than  harm?"  and  he  went  on  musing:  "How,  for 
that  matter,  can  anybody  at  any  time?  Truth  is 
natural :  a  liar  goes  against  Nature,  and  sets  up 
for  a  prophet  in  the  bargain;  he  needs  not  only  a 
'  long  memory,'  but  an  infinite  foresight.  But 

how  am  I  to  stave  her  off?" 

The  good  gentleman  need  not  have  troubled 
himself — even  to  lie.  The  question  was  settled 
without  his  help,  and  if  he  had  lied,  as  some  people 
thinking  themselves  wiser  would  have  done,  he 
would  have  been  found  out,  and  the  existing  chaos 
would  have  been  worse  confounded. 

Calmire  told  Pierre  to  put  another  log  on  the 
dining-room  fire,  and  then  seated  himself,  musing, 
before  it.  In  five  minutes  he,  like  Muriel,  was 
asleep.  In  fifteen  more  he  was  awake.  Among  his 
first  reflections  was  ; 


Banished.  33 J 

"  If  I  were  as  terribly  wise  as  some  people,  I  sup- 
pose I  should  not  have  given  that  boy  a  word  of 
sympathy.  While  pitying  him  as  much  as  blaming 
him,  I  should  have  let  him  see  only  the  blame,  and 
while  intending  to  do  what  I  can  for  him,  I  should 
have  professed  to  throw  him  upon  his  own  weak- 
ness and  inexperience.  That  was  the 'good  old- 
fashioned  way,'  I  suppose.  Ah,  these  are  degener- 
ate days!" 

Then  he  fell  into  a  long  meditation,  making  a 
few  notes  on  an  envelope  from  his  pocket. 

At  half-past  one,  Muriel  had  a  dream.  He  and 
Nina  were  in  the  row-boat,  down  upon  them  came 
the  yacht  that  Nina  had  steered  that  bright  day 
somewhere  away  back  in  another  life.  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine  was  at  the  helm.  Nina  had  just  said,  "Most 
of  the  differences  between  us  seem  to  me  mere 
words."  She  had  smiled  and  was  looking  into  his 
eyes  with  that  glance  of  recognition  and  trust. 
Crash  went  the  yacht  into  their  little  boat,  just 
where  Nina  sat.  He  saw  her  face  marked  like 
Courtenay's,  and  she  sank.  He  tried  to  pull  the 
boat  around  with  his  port  oar,  to  where  she  was 
sinking,  but  some  nightmare  force  held  his  arm 
and  interrupted  him.  Nina  was  there  drowning. 
He  tried  madly  again  and  again  to  pull  to  her, 
and  could  not.  In  horrible  agony  he  awoke.  Cal- 
mire  had  been  gently  moving  his  arm  to  arouse 
him. 

"  Oh!"  he  cried;  "  is  it  all  a  dream  ?" 

"What  have  you  been  dreaming?" 

"  Nina!"  he  exclaimed.  "Yes,  I  remember  now. 
Never  mind.  I'm  ready.  What  am  I  to  do?" 


332  Banished. 

"  Come  and  have  some  supper." 
"  I  can't  eat." 

"  Go  out  into  the  lavatory  and  dash  some  cold 
water  over  your  face.  Then  come  into  the  dining- 
room." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  opposite  each  other 
at  the  table.  Muriel  was  ready  for  a  glass  of  wine, 
but  he  poured  out  half  a  goblet  of  the  carefully 
tempered  Burgundy,  filled  it  up  with  ice-water,  and 
swallowed  it  at  a  gulp.  Then  he  filled  his  wine- 
glass. Pierre  had  withdrawn  at  a  sign  from  his 
master. 

"  If  you  don't  eat  something  with  that,"  said  Cal- 
mire,  "your  head  will  be  reeling." 

"All  right,"  said  the  boy,  and  helped  himself  to 
some  cold  chicken  and  bread,  and  before  he  knew 
it,  was  relishing  them. 

"Now,"  said  Calmire,  "have  you  plenty  of 
money  ?" 

"  Did  I  ever  have?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Never  long.     What  have  you  about  you  ?" 

"  Twenty  or  thirty  dollars." 

"That  will  start  you,"  said  Calmire.  "Go  to 
some  place  within  six  or  eight  hours  of  here,  where 
you  are  not  known,  and  which  is  not  small  enough 
to  make  you  an  object  of  remark.  But  you  can't 
cash  checks  at  such  places,  so  take  this."  He 
tossed  across  the  table  a  wad  of  bills  that  he  had 
taken  from  his  fob.  "  In  three  days  write  me 
where  you  are.  For  three  days  to  come,  I  don't 
want  to  know.  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do 
next." 

"All  right,"  said  Muriel, and  af teramoment  added : 


Banished.  333 

"  Oh  !  I  hate  to  leave  you  with  this  uncertainty 
hanging  upon  me.  For  that  matter,  I  hate  to  leave 
at  all.  It  seems  cowardly." 

"It  is  best." 

"You  promise  me  on  your  honor  that  you  will 
do  nothing  to  prevent  my  ultimately  facing  this 
thing  like  a  man  ?" 

"  Need  I  ?" 

"  Forgive  me,  Uncle  Grand,  my  brain  whirls." 

"Now,  Muriel,  one  thing  you  are  to  understand. 
There's  no  room  for  heroics  in  my  philosophy. 
Self-sacrifice  is  a  great  thing — in  its  place.  But  I 
don't  believe  that  a  man  who  has  spoken  slander, 
can  remedy  it  by  wearing  a  hair  shirt,  or  that  a 
man  who  has  robbed,  can  better  things  by  shaving 
his  head  or  going  on  a  crusade.  The  world  has  so 
long  been  educated  in  such  notions,  however,  that 
when  a  high-spirited  youngster  repents  a  wrong, 
his  first  impulse  is  to  do  himself  some  harm.  If 
there's  a  chance  to  do  it  under  the  guise  of  doing 
somebody  else  some  good,  or  what  appears  to  be 
some  good,  so  much  stronger  the  impulse.  Most 
of  the  time,  there  is,  at  bottom,  some  notion  that  in 
that  way  scores  can  be  cleared  off  and  matters  made 
as  they  were  before,  at  least  from  the  side  of  justice." 

"But,  Uncle—" 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  please.  I  don't  say  that 
this  is  deliberately  your  individual  way.  I  simply 
say  that,  in  the  present  stage  of  evolution,  it's 
largely  human  nature.  Now  all  that  way  is  mainly 
humbug.  Harm  done,  is  harm  done.  There's  no 
undoing  or  offsetting  it.  The  only  reasonable 
thing  is  to  attend  to  the  consequences,  and  try 


334  Banished. 

to  shape  them  to  the  least  pain  for  all,  and  to  con- 
fine that  pain  as  nearly  as  possible  where  the  blame 
lies.  This  trouble  is  too  complicated  to  judge 
hastily.  I  can't  tell  you  yet  what  to  strive  for. 
Perhaps  I  said  too  much  in  the  library.  Leave  it 
to  me,  and  I  will  try  literally  \.Q  judge  it.  When  I 
ought  to  send  for  you,  I  will  send." 

After  a  few  moments  of  meditation,  Calmire 
asked  abruptly:  "Whom  did  you  supplant?" 

Reflecting  a  little,  Muriel  answered:  "I  can't  be 
very  sure,  but  as  probably  Clint  Russell  as  anybody." 

After  another  brief  silence,  Calmire  asked :  "  Have 
you  a  diary?" 

"  Only  a  very  fitful  one." 

"  Take  it  with  you  to  consult  if  I  want  to  ask  you 
any  more  questions." 

"  It's  in  my  trunk  at  the  station  now." 

"  Well,  it's  time  for  you  to  go  there  too.  Tele- 
graph me  in  three  days.  Now,  Muriel,  remember 
this.  It  won't  mean  much  now,  but  it  will  later. 
Make  the  most  of  this  time  of  misery.  It  is  in  such 
times  that  character  grows.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 

Calmire  walked  with  him  silently  to  the  steps, 
and  pressed  his  hand.  At  the  turn  of  the  road, 
Muriel  looked  back  to  Nina's  dark  windows,  then 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  down  the  hiil 
which, a  few  hours  before,  he  had  scaled  in  trium- 
phant hope,  he  was  driven  beneath  the  waning  Oc- 
tober moon,  inert  and  despairing,  burdened  for  the 
first  time  with  the  ennobling  curse  of  care. 


CHAPTER   XXXIi. 

"DU     SOLLST     ENTBEHREN." 

AFTER  Muriel  left,  Calmire  went  in  and  sat  be- 
fore the  fire.  His  thoughts  ran  somewhat :  "  I  sup- 
pose some  wise  men  would  have  sent  that  poor 
boy  off  without  a  single  gleam  of  hope.  Ah,  me  ! 
Perhaps  a  youth  without  follies  is  apt  to  mean  a 
manhood  without  inspirations." 

Then  instead  of  continuing  to  ponder,  as  weaker 
men  would,  he  said  to  himself,  as  his  habit  was: 
"While  I  sleep,  it  will  shape  itself,"  and  went  off  to 
bed. 

He  awoke  late  next  morning,  but  with  a  pretty 
clear  idea  of  what  point  in  the  situation  he  would 
touch  next,  and  while  dressing  with  the  happy  im- 
pulse of  physical  vigor  that,  whatever  his  state  of 
mind  may  be,  a  strong  man  often  feels  in  the  morn- 
ing, especially  in  early  Autumn,  he  told  Pierre  that 
he  should  need  his  saddle-horse  at  ten. 

As  he  went  to  the  front  door,  he  found  it  open 
and  saw  Nina  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  sunlit  lawn. 
She  was  braiding  some  bright  Fall  leaves  around  her 
hat.  In  pulling  it  off,  she  had  loosened  her  hair, 
and  the  red-gold  stream  rippled  down  over  a  deep 
green  dress  of  some  soft  substance  that  fitted  close 
to  her  graceful  curves.  On  a  tree  near  her,  waited 
a  few  birds  who  had  postponed  going  South  to 
look  at  her,  and  they  were  chippering  sweet  praises 

335 


336  " Du  soltst  entbehren* 

of  her  to  each  other.  Her  profile  was  toward  Cal- 
mire,  and  its  firm  delicacy  stood  out  against  some 
dark  evergreens.  Her  face  was  absorbed  in  her 
work,  but  was  relieved  by  an  expression  of  deep 
content,  and  she  was  humming  to  herself  a  little 
song  which  he  could  not  clearly  catch. 

While  life  and  temptation  last,  who  shall  say 
with  final  assurance:  "I  have  conquered"?  Cal- 
mire  had  renounced  the  sweet  dream  that  had  been 
floating  across  his  mind  for  many  weeks,  and  had 
determined  that  though  the  rest  of  his  days  might 
abound  in  sympathy  and  peace,  he  should  know  the 
fires  of  joy,  only  as  reflected  heat.  In  his  life,  pas- 
sion, possession,  exultation,  all  had  blazed  glorious 
and  triumphant.  He  had  felt  all  that  man  may 
feel  and  keep  strong,  and  he  had  said  content- 
edly: "  I  have  had  my  share:  let  me  make  way 
for  others  now."  But  he  was  a  man  still:  he 
stood  regarding  her  as  men  who  are  both  strong 
and  good  are  apt  to  regard  women — with  some 
such  expression  of  mingled  discrimination  and 
reverence  as  a  sincere  Egyptian  priest,  if  there  was 
one,  would  have  regarded  a  creature  which  to 
him  was  both  flesh  and  God.  At  first  the  trained 
habit  of  Calmire's  soul  to  lose  itself  in  any  ob- 
ject of  beauty,  made  him  unconscious  of  all  but 
the  aesthetic  side  of  the  picture  before  him:  but 
as  he  watched  Nina's  unconscious  loveliness, 
there  grew  in  him  the  man's  yearning  to  possess 
and  cherish.  Back  in  his  consciousness,  but  un- 
defined, rumbled  that  deep  note  which  under- 
lies every  human  symphony,  and  which  means 


"  Du  sotlst  entbehren."  337 

incompleteness  and  abnegation ;  but  so  far  as  he  was 
conscious  of  it,  it  only  aroused  that  savage  im- 
pulse to  crush  all  opposition,  right  or  wrong, 
which  seems  to  have  come  down  with  all  great 
strength,  from  barbaric  fathers.  In  Calmire,  as 
in  all  other  men  of  steady  power,  the  barbaric 
tenseness  was  under  perfect  and  involuntary  con- 
trol. It  never  attained  even  the  definiteness  of 
motive,  but  it  often  filled  his  soul  with  a  grasping 
eagerness. 

While  he  stood  thus  with  all  his  nature  uncon- 
sciously reaching  for  her,  she  overcame  some  little 
difficulty  with  her  wreath,  and  held  it  up  on  a  level 
with  her  eyes,  humming  her  little  tune  with  a  cer- 
tain triumphant  energy.  Some  maidenly  instinct 
kept  her  from  uttering  the  words,  but  Calmire  re- 
membered them. 

"Erkommt!     Er  kommt !     Mein  Lieber  kommt, 
Mein  Lieber  kommt  zuriick!" 

Was  this  a  flash  of  triumph  that  passed  through 
Calmire,  as  he  said  half  aloud:  "  No,  he  won't"? 
Whatever  it  was,  the  next  instant  the  honorable 
gentleman  bent  his  head,  and  his  cheeks  were  red 
with  shame. 

Then  he  turned  and  went  into  his  library  and 
closed  the  door,  and  walked  up  and  down  heavily 
a  few  times,  and  then  seated  himself  in  anxious 
thought  by  the  window  which  commanded  the  bar- 
ren hills  with  their  stones  and  mullens.  And  circle 
as  his  thoughts  would,  they  always  came  back  to 
the  point:  "  It  may  be  too  late  now  to  be  generous 
for  hirr.  and  her  need  of  me  may  be  final.  There's  no 


338  «  DU  soiist  entbehren." 


one  for  her  but  him  or  me.  And  now  he,  poor 
boy  !—  " 

Soon  Nina  came  running  in  to  learn  if  he  was  up, 
and  found  him  at  breakfast.  Her  large  instincts 
told  her  that  there  was  something  wrong,  though 
Calmire's  attempts  to  conceal  that  fact  were  among 
the  great  efforts  of  his  life. 

Mrs.  Wahring  came  in  too,  and  said  :  "  Why  not 
only  are  you  late,  but  Mr.  Muriel  is  losing  some  of 
his  new  punctuality.  I  suppose  he  returned  last 
night  ?" 

Evidently  Pierre  had  not  been  subjected  to  any 
inquisitions. 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  who  had  learned  that  the 
best  way  to  conceal  essentials,  is  to  leave  as  little 
room  as  possible  for  inconsistency  between  non- 
essentials.  "  He  came,  but  new  matters  had  arisen 
which  forced  me  to  send  him  right  back." 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  Nina,  and  Calmire  thought 
how  comfortable  it  would  be  to  be  dead. 

But  just  at  present,  he  had  no  time  for  comfort 
in  that  way  or  any  other.  He  had  got  to  go  to 
Calmire  and  survey  the  situation.  He  told  the 
ladies  that  he  was  going  to  ride  over.  One  rea- 
son why  he  had  ordered  his  horse  saddled,  was 
that  he  did  not  wish  any  company. 

"  Let  me  ride  with  you,"  said  Nina  ;  "  I  must  go 
to-day." 

"  Unfortunately  I'm  in  great  haste  and  must  go 
across  country,"  answered  Calmire.  "Won't  you 
take  the  victoria  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  can  go  across  country." 

"There  are  high  fences,"  said  Calmire,  almost 
impatiently. 


"  Dn  sollst  entbehren."  339 

"You  mustn't  take  them,  my  darling,"  expostu- 
lated Mrs.  Wahring.  "  It's  bad  enough  for  Cousin 
Calmire  to  risk  his  own  neck.  You'renotfitforalong 
ride,  anyhow;  you've  been  a  little  sleepless  of  late." 

"  But  I'm  very  fit  now!"  urged  Nina. 

Calmire  was  half  tempted  to  make  some  compro- 
mise with  her,  but  restrained  himself  by  reflecting: 
"I've  got  to  gag  that  she-devil  of  a  Granzine,  and 
that's  a  job  that  will  give  me  enough  to  think  out, 
without  having  to  parry  this  child  all  the  way." 

Mrs.  Wahring  had  a  headache,  and  so  it  came 
about  that  Nina  drove  over  and  back  alone.  She 
had  a  good  time  with  her  own  thoughts — so  good 
that  she  drove  over  alone  more  than  once  later,  and 
thus  the  little  circumstance  of  her  going  alone  this 
day  had  some  results;  or  perhaps  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  say  that  the  place  of  this  little  circumstance 
in  the  infinite  web  of  causes  and  results,  eventu- 
ally became  more  noticeable  than  at  the  time  would 
have  appeared  probable. 

As  Calmire  started  to  ride  across  country,  the 
old-time  suggestion  of  augury  came  up  in  his 
mind,  and  as  he  dismissed  it,  his  smile  was  very 
sad.  He  thought  of  a  similar  suggestion  that 
had  come  when  he  started  to  drive  tandem  with 
Nina  far  back  on  the  other  side  of  this  great 
gulf  of  trouble.  It  is  strange,  before  one  stops  to 
reason  over  it,  how  remote  even  yesterday  appears, 
when  there  is  a  great  event  between  it  and  to-day. 
Calmire's  augury  to-day  was  :  "If  I  jump  an  even 
number  of  ditches,  this  affair  will  come  out  right : 
if  odd — !"  But  he  forgot  to  count  the  ditches. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A     LITTLE     DIPLOMACY. 

THE  first  thing  Calmire  did  on  reaching  the 
office,  was  to  send  for  Clint  Russell,  the  gentleman 
whose  difficulties  with  the  bass  tuba,  and  interest 
in  African  colonization,  were  alluded  to  very  early 
in  this  narrative,  and  who  was  one  of  the  most 
important  foremen  in  the  mills. 

This  Clint  Russell  was  a  character.  When  a  great 
lank  boy  of  twenty,  he  had  come  to  Calmire  from  the 
army.  Muriel's  grandfather  asked  what  he  could  do. 
He  answered:  "Anything  that  don't  need  book- 
larnin ',"  and  Mr.  Calmire  found  out  that  he  had  sub- 
stantially told  the  truth,  as  he  always  did.  But  he 
had  since  shown  his  ability  to  do  some  things  that 
did  require  more  or  less  "  book-larnin',"  and  had 
provided  himself  with  not  a  little  of  that  enervating 
commodity.  Yet, as  is  not  seldom  the  case  with  such 
men,  his  speech,  especially  at  exciting  moments,  re- 
tained much  of  the  twangand  many  of  the  solecisms 
of  his  youth,  as  well  as  a  very  undue  proportion  of 
the  oaths  he  had,  boy-like,  cultivated  in  the  army. 
But  at  bottom  he  was  a  gentle  and  reverent  soul, 
rugged,  but  strong  and  reliable  as  his  native  New 
England  hills. 

When  he  came  in,  Calmire,  with  'a  diplomacy 
foreign  to  his  character,  but,  like  many  other  ardu- 
ous things,  within  his  powers  under  great  necessity, 

340 


A  Little  Diplomacy.  34 1 

got  Clint  into  a  communicative  mood,  then  led 
gradually  from  a  business  talk,  through  some  in- 
quiry about  Granzine's  functions  at  the  mills,  to 
comments  on  the  family,  and  at  last  managed  to 
bring  in,  in  the  most  natural  manner  in  the  world: 

"  I  had  a  notion  once  that  you  wanted  to  marry 
Minerva,  old  man." 

He  had  affectionately  called  Clint  "old  man," 
when  none  of  the  other  men  were  by,  for  many 
years. 

"  And  have  that  damned  woman  for  a  mother- 
in-law?  Not  if  I  know  myself,  sir  !"  was  Clint's 
prompt  reply. 

In  the  rest  of  the  conversation,  he  had  abundant 
occasion  for  his  pet  adjective,  and  its  various  forms 
as  verb  and  substantive,  but  the  reader  need  not 
be  bothered  with  them. 

Calmire  laughed  in  spite  of  his  heavy  heart. 

"  Why,  Clint,  what  difference  does  the  mother- 
in-law  make  if  a  man  wants  a  girl  ?" 

"  Not  so  much  with  your  sort  o'  folks  ;  but  it's 
different  with  us.  We  mostly  have  to  live  together, 
and  crowd  close.  Old  Granzine's  peterin'  out,  and 
never  amounted  to  narthin'  in  his  own  house  no- 
how; Johnny's  gone  to  college  and  won't  be  doin* 
much  for  quite  a  spell.  I'd  soon  have  the  old  wo- 
man on  my  shoulders,  and  I  hate  her." 

"Why,  Clint,  you  didn't  always  feel  this  way. 
But  pardon  my  meddlesomeness." 

"  Oh,  as  for  me  ever  hav'n'  anything  to  par- 
don in  you,  it's  too  ridiculous.  Yes,  I  did  kind 
o'  shine  up  to  Minervy  once,  and  that  woman 
she  kind  o'  led  me  on  until,  I  may  as  well  out  with 


342  A  Little  Diplomacy. 

it,  when  Mr.  Muriel  come  home  one  holiday,  and 
the  woman  got  her  blasted  neck  twisted  over  him." 

"  Which  woman  ?" 

"The  old  'un.  The  young  'un  might  ha'  kep' 
along  straight  enough  if  the  old  one  had  had  sense 
enough  to  let  her  alone.  But  she  ain't  much  of  a 
critter  to  go  alone  nohow.  It  might  ha'  been  right 
enough  though,  if  the  old  woman  hadn't  inter- 
fered. But  mebbe  it's  all  for  the  best." 

"  Whether  it's  better  or  not,  Clint,"  said  Cal- 
mire,  "  I'm  sorry  you  think  Muriel  was  the  cause 
of  any  trouble.  But  I've  never  known  of  his 
being  with  her  a  great  deal.  He  certainly  has  not 
been  since  I've  been  home." 

"  Guess  that's  so,"  said  Clint.  "  Well,  if  it  hadn't 
been  him,  it  might  ha'  been  somebody  else,  and 
that  too,  perhaps,  when  my  job  got  far  enough  to 
make  it  hurt." 

"Then  you've  no  grudge  against  Muriel  ?" 

"  I  ain't  had  no  call  ter  !  He  hadn't  been  here, 
so  he  didn't  know  what  I  was  arter,  and  he  didn't 
do  narthin'  I  wouldn't  ha'  done." 

"  Well,  if  you  wanted  to  marry  her,  you're  pretty 
liberal  to  him.  But  that's  just  like  you." 

"  Oh,  we  wasn't  reg'lerly  keepin'  company.  I 
was  only  sort  o'  shinin'  up  to  her." 

"  Well,  it's  strange  you  hate  the  mother  so  much, 
if  you  didn't  love  the  daughter  just  as  much." 

"  It's  God  a'mighty's  own  work  to  hate  that 
woman  anyhow.  None  of  us  people  ain't  good 
enough  for  her:  yet  at  bottom  she's  not  as  good  as 
the  worst  of  us.  She's  always  makin'  trouble.  She 
nearly  bust  up  the  library  while  you  was  away. 


A  Little  Diplomacy.  343 

Oh,  I  know  her!  But  I  didn't  think  so  awful  much 
about  it  till  she  tried  her  stuck-up  airs  on  me." 

"You  didn't  think  much  aboutwhat,if  I  mayask  ?" 

"  Sorry  I  can't  tell  you,  sir."  But  he  told 

enough  for  Calmire  before  the  interview  was  over. 

Calmire  could  not  have  talked  with  any  other 
subordinate  in  the  works  as  he  talked  with  Clint. 
But  the  characters  of  both  men  made  such  intimacy 
possible  without  any  intrenchment  on  their  respec- 
tive positions,  and  Calmire  not  only  liked,  perhaps 
it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say  loved,  the  man, 
but  found  him  an  unfailing  source  of  sympathetic 
amusement,  and  often  indulged  in  chats  with  him. 
Calmire  found  it  very  congenial  with  his  feeling  to- 
ward his  trusted  henchman  to  learn  that,  after  all, 
Minerva  Granzine  did  not  appear  to  have  more 
deeply  stirred  the  giant's  great  and  simple  heart. 

But  Calmire  was  no  sentimentalist,  and  perhaps  he 
did  not  allow  quite  enough  for  Clint's  involuntary 
New  England  reticence.  He  knew,  though,  that 
there  are  too  many  close  intimacies  where  hearts 
are  not  involved,  and  he  had  more  to  search  for, 
with  hope  and  fear  for  Muriel's  sake.  His  cautious 
inquiries,  however,  elicited  nothing  to  relieve  his 
perplexities.  Yet  there  was  much  more  of  the  con- 
versation, some  of  which  eventually  served  him. 

He  led  the  talk  over  a  wide  range  of  topics  con- 
cerning the  work-people,  and  the  various  organi- 
zations for  their  benefit,  bringing  in  a  variety  oi 
personal  gossip,  and  getting  side  lights  on  his  main 
points  as  best  he  could  without  arousing  suspicion. 
To  close  the  interview,  he  looked  at  his  watch  and 
said: 


344  A  Little  Diplomacy. 

"Well,  we've  used  up  a  lot  of  time,  but  I've  been 
so  busy  since  I  got  home,  over  back  work  and 
with  guests  in  my  house,  that  I  haven't  really  had 
a  good  gossip  about  our  people  before.  You've 
given  me  some  points  about  the  way  things  have 
been  running,  especially  at  the  library  building, 
that  I  think  may  be  of  some  use.  And,"  he  added 
laughing,  "  if  your  friend  Mrs.  Granzine  wants  to 
stir  up  any  more  seditions  there,  or  make  any 
trouble  of  any  kind,  am  I  to  understand  that  I'm 
at  liberty  to  refer  her  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir/"  said  Clint.  "  Just  you  do  anything 
you  please.  We  all  know  you  don't  take  no  wrong 
twists  on  nobody.  Good-morn'n'." 

As  soon  as  Clint  had  gone  out,  Calmire  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Granzine,  asking  for  an  appointment  a  week 
later,  and  expressing  regret  that  many  engage- 
ments prevented  his  giving  the  subject  the  con- 
sideration it  deserved,  in  less  time. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

THE    ENCOUNTER. 

ON  Friday,  the  twenty-first,  promptly  at  seven, 
Mr.  Calmire  presented  himself  by  appointment  at 
Mrs.  Granzine's.  That  lady  opened  the  door  herself, 
and  asked  him  to  walk  into  the  "drawing-room." 

When  they  were  seated,  he  began: 

"I  hope  I  needn't  tell  you  again,  Mrs.  Granzine, 
how  much  I  deplore  this  affair,  and  how  ready  I 
am  to  do  anything  and  advise  anything  that  will 
make  the  burden  lightest  for  all  concerned." 

"There  need  not  be  any  burden  about  it,  sir. 
All  that  is  necessary,  is  for  Mr.  Muriel  to  marry 
Minerva.  All  will  be  happy.  Providence  orders 
everything  for  the  best,  sir." 

"So  you  attribute  this  state  of  affairs  to  the  de- 
signs of  Providence,  do  you  ?"  Calmire  could  not 
help  saying  in  a  tone  of  sarcasm  that  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine was  too  intent  on  her  own  ideas  to  notice. 

"How  can  we  doubt  it,  sir?"  she  answered. 
"Does  not  God  do  everything?" 

"I  don't  know:  we  seem  to  do  some  things  our- 
selves. But  I  believe  the  people  who  claim  to  know, 
find  it  convenient  to  have  a  devil  to  do  a  part." 

"  The  devil  has  no  chance  where  we  do  our  duty, 
sir.  Everybody's  duty  is  plain  here,  and  through 
this  mysterious  dispensation,  good  will  come." 

"  Well,  I  regret  to  say  that  I  don't  see  anything 
at  all  mysterious  in  the  'dispensation,'  and  I  do 

345 


346  The  Encounter. 

find  a  great  deal  that's  mysterious  in  the  question 
of  what  we  ought  to  do  about  it." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  you  have  any 
doubt  as  to  Mr.  Muriel's  duty  to  marry  Minerva  ! 
There  can  be  only  one  end  to  such  doubts,  sir,  and 
I  do  not  see  how  you  can  doubt  at  all." 

"Simply  by  trying  to  consider  your  side  of  the 
case  as  fairly  as  my  own." 

This  nonplussed  her.  She  had  never  known  any- 
body to  be  troubled  in  that  way  before.  After  a 
moment,  she  said: 

"It  is  perfectly  plain  to  me,  sir.  May  I  inquire 
into  the  considerations  which  prevent  its  being 
equally  plain  to  you?" 

"Well,  to  begin  with  the  point  you  are  most 
likely  to  be  interested  in:  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  the 
happiest  thing  for  Minerva." 

She  was  dumbfounded,  and  her  eyes  took  an 
ugly  look. 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  play  with  me,  sir?" 

"  Not  at  all.     Shall  I  give  you  my  reasons  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  must  pardon  plain  speaking.  It  is 
but  natural  for  you  to  suppose  that  what  money 
and  surroundings  Muriel  could  give  a  woman, 
ought  to  make  her  happy." 

"  And  why  not  ?" 

"  Any  newspaper  will  prove  to  you  that  money 
cannot  secure  happy  marriages — that  wretched 
ones  are  as  frequent  proportionally  among  the 
rich  as  among  the  poor.  Marriage  must  depend 
on  the  persons  themselves,  and  in  unhappy  mar- 


The  Encounter.  347 

riages,  the  woman  inevitably  suffers  more  than  the 
man.  Now  what  sort  of  a  preparation  for  a  happy 
marriage  is  the  present  state  of  affairs?" 

"  If  a  man  has  the  least  spark  of  decency  about 
him,"  she  exclaimed  rather  irrelevantly,  "  he  would 
do  his  duty  by  a  woman  under  such  circum- 
stances !" 

"  Softly,  madam.  We  are  simply  inquiring  what 
his  duty  is." 

"  I  say  it's  to  marry  her  and  be  good  to  her." 

"  '  Be  good  to  her '  is  an  easy  thing  to  say,  and 
perhaps  an  easy  thing  for  an  inexperienced  man  to 
think  he  can  do.  There  might  be  some  confident 
eagerness  to  begin  it,  in  some  generous  young  men. 
But  when  the  humdrum  of  life  begins,  and  new 
experiences  come  to  the  front,  the  first  chivalric 
feeling  is  driven  into  the  background,  and  soon  the 
question  becomes  the  same  as  it  is  in  all  other  mar- 
riages: Are  the  two  people  fitted  for  each  other?" 

"  But — "  she  interrupted. 

"  Bear  with  me  a  few  moments  more,  please. 
Now  here,  that  question  has  some  powerful  con- 
siderations against  it.  First  and  plainest,  the  dif- 
ferent experiences  of  the  young  people.  These  are 
of  vast  importance,  not  only  as  regards  their  rela- 
tions to  each  other,  but  their  relations  to  the  world: 
and  the  two  relations  affect  each  other.  But  it 
is  not  an  agreeable  point  to  enlarge  upon  now. 
Next,  and  stronger,  comes  the  different  cast  of 
their  minds.  Muriel's  is  very  peculiar.  I  never 
saw  half  a  dozen  women  who  could  live  with 
him  happily.  Then  comes  the  all-important 


348  The  Encounter. 

fact  which  we  cannot  afford  to  blink,  that  to  make 
a  woman  happy  as  the  head  of  his  house,  a  man 
must  look  upon  her  with  eyes  which  it  is  impossible 
for  the  man  to  have  for  the  woman  in  this  case." 

"What  way  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"  I  mean  that  the  present  state  of  affairs  would 
have  to  be  forgotten,  and  some  men  could  never 
forget,  and  Muriel  happens  to  be  such  a  man." 

Mrs.  Granzine  drew  a  long  breath,  and  got  up 
and  walked  the  floor.  At  last  she  burst  out: 

"Yes,  you  ruin  us,  and  then  despise  us."  Then 
she  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  and  burst  into  a 
flood  of  angry  tears. 

Calmire  felt  as  much  sympathy  as  men  usually 
do  before  women's  tears,  but  he  always  felt  his  con- 
victions more  persistently  than  most  men  can.  His 
lips  twitched  a  moment,  and  then  he  unconsciously 
uttered  a  little  nervous  laugh.  He  rose  and  ap- 
proached the  sofa  where  the  woman's  face  was 
buried  in  her  arms,  resisted  an  impulse  to  lay  his 
hand  on  her  head,  did  lay  it  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa 
beside  her,  and  said,  very  quietly: 

"  Compose  yourself,  Mrs.  Granzine.  We  must 
consider  this  matter  with  calmness,  or  we  can  do 
nothing." 

She  sat  up,  clinched  her  knees  with  her  hands, 
and  glared  at  him  through  her  tangled  hair. 

"  Consider  it  calmly!  Do  nothing  with  it!  Your 
nephew  and  adopted  son  comes  here  and  ruins  my 
daughter!  You  refuse  justice,  and  ask  me  to  con- 
sider it  calmly,  and  you  speak  of  doing  nothing 
with  it!  What  do  you  call  yourself?" 

At  first  the  question  concluding  her  tirade  did 


The  Encounter.  349 

not  move  Calmire  to  any  response,  but  during  the 
silence  that  ensued,  it  somehow  found  lodgment 
in  his  mind,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  answered 
her  in  a  sad  slow  voice: 

"An  imperfect  man  who  hopes  he  loves  justice 
and  wishes  to  do  it.  But,"  he  added  with  a  sudden 
quick  firmness,  "  no  amount  of  excitement  on  your 
part  is  going  to  help  me  one  hair's  breadth." 

She  had  but  one  idea,  and  had  had  but  one  for 
six  months — to  marry  her  daughter  to  Muriel  Cal- 
mire. That  idea  seldom  slept,  unless  she  slept;  it 
had  been  first  in  her  dreams,  and  had  greeted  her 
first  of  all  things  when  she  awoke.  Monomania 
was  a  mild  name  for  it.  That  she  had  not  forced 
it  into  every  sentence  of  the  interview,  was  an  illus- 
tration of  the  strength  of  her  nature.  Now  the 
floodgates  were  down.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and 
half  screamed  at  him: 

"Will  you  make  your  nephew  marry  my  daugh- 
ter?" 

"  Probably  not." 

Mrs.  Granzine  flew  to  the  first  alternative: 

"  Then  I  will." 

"  You'll  have  to  find  him  first.  It  may  not  be 
easy,  even  then." 

"Oh!  He's  run  away,  has  he?  The  coward! 
Then  I'll  disgrace  the  name  of  Calmire  from  one 
end  of  the  land  to  the  other." 

"At  the  cost  of  the  name  of  Granzine?" 

"  Oh,  what's  the  name  of  Granzine  ?" 

"  You  seemed  to  consider  it  a  good  deal  just 
now,  when  you  spoke  of  the  danger  threatening  it." 

"  Well,  the  name's  going  to  the  dogs  anyhow!" 


350  The  Encounter. 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it!" 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Not  if  you  can  help  it  ?     What  can  you  do  ?" 

"Send  you  and  your  daughter  away  from  here  in 
comfort  until  the  future  is  past  question.  Mean- 
time determine  what  is  best  to  do  then." 

This  was  not  what  she  had  been  burning  for,  for 
six  months.  She  felt,  though,  that  force  would  not 
give  her  that,  and  Calmire's  "  Not  if  I  can  help  it," 
had  surprised  one  of  the  little  loop-holes  of  even  her 
dark  soul.  She  sat  a  few  moments  perplexed  and, 
for  her,  softened.  Then  she  began:  "Where's  the 
justice?  Where's  the  justice  for  the  woman,  any- 
how? The  two  commit  the  same  wrong.  The  man 
goes  free,  the  world  pardons  and  receives  him.  The 
woman  bears  her  burden  and  her  disgrace,  and  the 
world  turns  her  off.  Oh,  it's  unjust!" 

"It's  no  such  thing!"  exclaimed  Calmire.  His 
mind  had  lately  been  full  of  the  subject  and  it  over- 
flowed. "  I've  heard  that  sort  of  rant  on  the  stage 
and  off,  until  I'm  sick  of  it.  It  will  pass  among 
old  maids,  but  you're  too  experienced  for  it.  You 
know  what  a  man  is  and  what  a  woman  is.  You 
know  that  a  young  man's  passions  are  to  a  young 
woman's  as  lightning  to  moonshine,  unless  the  wo- 
man is  perverted:  and  you  know  that  if  she  is,  she 
can  heat  and  mould  the  man  like  wax.  You  know 
that  no  man  has  the  same  control  over  any  woman 
that  almost  any  woman  has  over  almost  any  man. 
You  know  that  it's  as  natural  for  a  young  woman 
to  fly,  as  it  is  for  a  young  man  to  pursue,  that  the 
only  defence  for  either  of  them,  is  in  her  re> 
serve,  and  that  if  she  does  not  use  that  defence, 


The  Encounter.  35 l 

the  fault  is  hers.  You  know  that  it's  her  business 
to  protect  them  both,  and  that  a  good  woman  al- 
ways does.  You  know,  and  I'm  going  to  indulge 
myself  in  saying  that  I  don't  believe  anybody 
knows  better,  that  most  of  these  miserable  scrapes 
are  made  by  women  perverted  from  their  nature, 
and  men  who  only  follow  their  nature.  Don't  talk 
to  me  about  the  man  being  as  much  to  blame  as 
the  woman  !  There  may  be  one  case  in  ten  where 
he  is.  But  that's  not  this  case,  and  you  know  it." 

"I  don't  know  it,  and  he's  got  to  marry  my 
daughter,"  persisted  the  woman.  Long  nursing 
of  the  idea  seemed  to  have  rendered  her  incapable 
of  relinquishing  it,  yet  it  was  far  enough  displaced 
to  make  room  for  the  idea  of  revenge.  "  If  he 
doesn't,"  she  added,  "  I'll  disgrace  you  all." 

It  was  a  little  strange,  but  not  unnatural,  that  her 
resentment  had  not  directed  itself  more  specifically 
against  Muriel;  but  she  had  a  sub-consciousness 
regarding  his  share  of  the  responsibility:  and  of 
the  obstacles  to  her  ambitions,  the  principal  one 
seemed  to  be  Mr.  Calmire. 

He  reflected:  "Confound  the  woman!  In  her 
madness  she's  just  as  apt  as  not  to  do  something 
which  will  publish  the  whole  affair.  I  must  stop 
her  mouth."  Then  he  said: 

"  Mrs.  Granzine,  suppose  we  suspend  our  argu- 
ment long  enough  for  me  to  tell  you  a  little  cir- 
cumstance that  may  influence  your  views.  A 
friend  of  mine,  who  was  a  sergeant  in  the  First 
Maine  Cavalry  some  twenty  years  ago,  told  me 
that  the  surgeon  of  his  regiment  got  hit  once 
while  attending  to  the  wounded  under  fire.  The 


352  The  Encounter. 

surgeon  was  a  brave  man,  though  not  exactly 
what  my  friend  calls  a  '  straight '  one.  Well,  my 
friend  carried  him  to  the  rear  and  set  him  down 
against  a  tree,  and  the  surgeon  said:  '  It's  a  ptetty 
bad  case,  and  if  I  don't  get  over  it,  I  want  you  to 
take  these  things  ' — and  some  of  them  were  pretty 
valuable  things — '  to  a  patient  of  mine  up  in  Sands- 
ville.'  " 

Mrs.  Granzine's  muscles  grew  a  little  more  tense. 

"  My  friend  said  that  he  took  the  things,  was 
nimself  left  on  the  field  for  dead  that  night,  found 
himself  robbed  when  he  recovered  consciousness, 
and  never  saw  the  surgeon  again — " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Calmire,  what  in  the  world  has  this 
to  do  with  what  we're  talking  of?" 

"  Never  saw  the  surgeon  again,"  resumed  Cal- 
mire, "  until  the  surgeon  came  to  this  town  last 
week.  Now,  Mrs.  Granzine,  you  needn't  care  to 
know  the  rest  of  the  story,  and  it  will  never  be  told 
unless  I  should  be  forced  to  illustrate  the  laws  of 
heredity  a  little  by  citing  their  application  to  the 
case  of  Minerva  Granzine." 

The  woman  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  with  a  face 
so  pale  that  only  her  hair  and  her  great  gray  eyes 
seemed  to  stand  out  from  the  white  "  tidy."  In  a 
few  seconds  she  bent  quickly  forward  with  her 
hands  clinching  her  knees,  looked  piercingly  at 
Calmire,  and  ground  out  between  her  teeth: 

"  I'll  kill  that  Clint  Russell !  How  did  he  learn 
it  was  I,  and  what  made  him  tell  you  ?" 

"  He  learned  it  naturally  enough,  and  I  learned 
it  naturally  enough,  without  his  intending  that  I 
should.  But  if  you  had  acted  more  wisely  toward 


TJie  Encounter.  353 

him,  I  never  should  have  happened  on  it.  But  if 
you  really  mean  to  continue  your  unwise  course  so 
far  as  to  kill  him,  you've  made  a  mistake  in  making 
me  a  witness  to  your  intention.  Such  testimony 
hangs:  so  to  be  safe,  you'd  have  to  kill  me  too. 
I've  no  particular  objection  to  .your  doing  that,  but 
I  don't  believe  it  would  be  good  policy." 

Then  he  arose  and  continued:  "  Mrs.  Granzine, 
you're  a  sorely-tried  woman,  and  I'm  sorry  for 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Of  course  you 
will  believe  that, or  not,  as  you  please.  But  permit 
me  to  advise  you  to  believe  it,  and  to  let  me  know 
that  you  do,  and  then  to  command  me  in  anything 
that  I  can  approve  which  will  lessen  your  troubles. 
Good-night." 

His  tones  were  kind  and  earnest.  If  there  had 
been  any  sarcasm  or  hardness  in  them,  she  would 
not  have  felt  so  sure  that  her  game  was  up. 

Calmire  had  not  got  half  way  to  John's  before 
he  met  Clint  Russell.  He  stopped  fora  word, and 
at  parting  said:  "  Clint,  perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  your  having  put  me  on  the  track  of  more  of 
Doctor  Leitoff's  history  than  you  intended,  need 
give  your  sense  of  honor  no  further  misgivings. 
It  has  done  good  service." 

"Then,"  broke  out  Clint,  with  a  very  just  feel- 
ing, but,  as  has  been  the  case  with  more  than  one 
other  good  man,  with  a  very  mistaken  idea  of  what 
he  was  talking  about,  "  Hurrah  for  our  side,  and 
Mrs.  Granzine  may  go  to  the  devil !" 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

ANOTHER    ENCOUNTER. 

THE  next  morning,  Mrs.  Granzine,  in  a  neat  gray 
morning-gown,  was  by  her  window  trying  to  com- 
pose her  distracted  mind  by  reading  one  of  Ouida's 
novels,  when  the  noise  of  a  carriage  caused  her  to 
look  up,  and  she  saw  Miss  Wahring  pass  toward  the 
green.  Her  face  assumed  an  expression  of  hate  as 
tragic  as  anything  in  the  intense  volume  before  her. 

"  You  took  him  away!  I  know  you  did!  I  know 
you  did!"  she  exclaimed,  so  loudly  that  Minerva 
called  from  the  next  room: 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  my  child." 

Mrs.  Granzine  let  her  book  lie,  her  finger  be- 
tween the  leaves,  and  fell  into  a  brown  study. 
Suddenly  she  said:  "I'll  do  it,"  rose,  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  which  were  noticeably  tasteful 
though  inexpensive,  and  started  down  the  street. 
Arrived  at  the  green,  she  saw  that  Calmire's  vic- 
toria was  not  before  his  brother's  house.  She 
walked  past  the  house,  around  the  green,  and  past 
the  house  again.  Then  she  walked  about  for  half 
an  hour,  frequently  going  where  she  could  see 
John  Calmire's  house,  and  peering  into  all  the 
shops  as  she  went  by  them.  At  last,  she  entered  a 
drug-store  where  one  of  her  few  special  friends 
was  clerk,  and  said  to  him: 

354 


Another  Encounter.  355 

"  William,  I  desire  to  write  a  letter.  May  I  have 
the  privilege  of  doing  so  here?" 

"  Certainly,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Einstein  will  not  be 
in  for  an  hour.  Come  right  back  to  his  desk." 

She  went  and  spent  three  quarters  of  an  hour  in 
producing,  after  various  abortive  attempts,  a  docu- 
ment covering  but  two  sides  of  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper.  She  addressed  it,  and  started  to  go  out, 
when  she  saw  Nina  Wahring  talking  with  the  drug 
clerk,  whose  sentence  she  caught  up  at:  "  . .  per- 
fume it  very  mildly:  I  should  say  about  ten  min- 
utes. Will  you  wait  ?" 

Nina  said  yes,  and  seated  herself.  The  clerk 
went  back  to  the  prescription  counter.  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine  said:  "  Thank  you,  William.  Good-bye,"  and 
passed  outward  into  the  store.  The  room  was 
long,  and  before  she  reached  the  front,  she  began 
to  shorten  her  steps  and  to  peer  at  various  objects 
in  the  showcases.  Opposite  where  Nina  was  sit- 
ting, she  seemed  to  find  something  of  deep  and 
peculiar  interest.  After  appearing  to  contemplate 
it  for  perhaps  five  minutes,  her  hand  all  the  time 
in  her  pocket  fumbling  with  the  note,  her  features 
set,  she  crushed  the  paper,  turned,  and  abruptly 
walked  over  to  Nina,  and  said  in  a  low  tone: 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss.  I  have  observed  you  fre- 
quently interested  in  conversation  with  a  gentle- 
man who  has  no  right  to  have  any  young  lady  but 
one  interested  in  him,  and  I  feel  under  a  moral 
responsibility  to  make  you  acquainted  with  the 
fact." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I've  any  need  of  any  such 
facts,"  said  Nina,  very  calmly. 


Another  Encounter. 

She  did  not  like  the  woman.  Before  Mrs.  Gran- 
zine  spoke,  there  was  something  chilling  about  her 
neat  cold  cut;  and  her  grandiloquent  language  and 
especially  the  expression  of  countenance  which  ac- 
companied it,  were  repulsive.  Nina's  antipathy  was 
a  pretty  good  substitute  for  apathy,  but  probably 
if  Muriel's  name  had  been  mentioned  at  the  outset, 
the  substitute  would  not  have  been  as  efficacious. 

"  The  person  is  not  a  proper  person,"  reiterated 
Mrs.  Granzine. 

"  Oh!"  said  Nina,  but  very  imperturbably. 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire,"  said  the  woman, 
impatiently. 

"Yes?"  said  Nina,  with  rising  inflection,  but  the 
same  exasperating  calm. 

"  He  has  ruined  my  daughter,"  ran  on  the 
woman,  stung  beyond  any  power  of  restraint. 

"  Yes  ?"  said  Nina,  half  mechanically  repeating  the 
expression  with  the  exasperating  rising  inflection 
which  had  already  served  her  so  well,  but  she  had  a 
faint  grateful  sense  of  the  support  of  the  counter. 

"  And  he  has  run  away;  but  he  shall  be  forced  to 
come  back  and  marry  her  and  support  her  child," 
almost  screamed  the  woman. 

"  Yes?"  again  said  Nina. 

This  was  more  than  Mrs.  Granzine  had  bargained 
for.  She  had  expected  to  overwhelm  the  girl — not 
only  to  destroy  all  fear  of  her  being  in  the  way  of 
Muriel's  marriage  to  Minerva,  but  to  make  her 
suffer  for  the  innocent  part  she  had  presumably 
taken  in  warping  Muriel's  inclinations  away  from 
that  unhappy  girl.  Here,  for  her  life,  she  could 
not  make  out  whether  Nina  was  agitated  by  such 


A  not  her  Encounter.  357 

communications,  whether  the  revelations  appeared 
to  her  of  consequence  enough  to  in  any  way  affect 
her  relations  with  Muriel,  or  whether  (worst  thought 
of  all)  Muriel  had  not,  with  that  almost  shameless 
candor  of  which  he  was  spasmodically  capable, 
already  confessed  and  been  absolved.  With  her 
communications  received  as  of  no  consequence,  and 
herself  treated  contemptuously  as  a  meddler  and, 
she  felt,  an  inferior,  Mrs.  Granzine  had  gratuitously 
poured  the  family  scandal  into  another  pair  of  ears. 
Somehow  she  had,  from  the  outset,  no  fear  that  it 
would  go  farther;  but  nevertheless,  she  felt  the  deep- 
est humiliation  that  she  had  endured  in  connection 
with  the  whole  humiliating  affair.  The  instinct  of 
self-preservation  asserted  itself,  and  she  said: 

"  I  trust  you  believe,  Miss,  that  nothing  but  a 
conviction  of  moral  responsibility  would  have  in- 
duced me  to  make  this  disclosure." 

"  Yes  ?"  again. 

Mrs.  Granzine  disappeared.  Nina  took  her  pur- 
chase, paid  for  it  without  counting  her  change — a 
very  unusual  thing  with  her — and  left  the  store. 

Then  what  had  been  said  to  her  began  to  take 
on  more  detailed  meaning.  While  listening,  she 
had  felt  and  known  little  but  that  she  must  hold 
herself  in  hand.  Now  she  began  to  realize  what  it 
was  that  she  had  been  bracing  herself  against.  In 
horrified  amazement,  she  recoiled  from  it  with  a 
start  that  shook  her  whole  soul  and  changed  the 
relations  of  all  things  in  it.  To  her  eyes,  were 
opened  vistas  that  had  been  shaping  themselves 
deep  down  under  her  consciousness,  and  now  fell 
into  coherent  aspects  under  the  new  law  which 


358  A  not  her  Encounter. 

had  assumed  control  of  her  being.  She  voiced  it 
all  in  a  questioning  cry  that  welled  up  from  depths 
of  her  nature  far  below  will  or  purpose,  and  that, 
in  the  frequented  street  as  she  was,  almost  escaped 
her  lips: 

"Muriel?  Muriel?     My  Muriel  ?" 

She  would  not  believe  it.  What  she  would  not 
believe,  she  hardly  knew.  She  only  knew  that 
far  out  in  some  inconceivable  region,  beyond  even 
the  bounds  of  modesty,  there  was  some  vague  form 
of  evil  which  cursed  the  human  race,  and  espe- 
cially her  half  of  it,  more  heavily  than  any  other 
blight.  She  knew,  too,  that  associated  with  this 
evil  were  often,  on  the  man's  part,  deceit  and 
cruelty.  But  deceit  and  cruelty  were  not  Muriel, 
so  how  could  he  have  done  the  wrong  ?  The  prob- 
lem was  too  much  for  her.  She  puzzled  and  puz- 
zled, until  at  last  one  fact,  or  set  of  facts,  began  to 
assume  horrible  distinctness.  Another  woman 
had  a  claim  on  him.  Then  she  clearly  felt  what, 
before,  she  had  half  unconsciously  uttered  to  her- 
self, that  she  had  a  claim — the  claim  that  a  strong 
and  lonely  soul  has  on  a  kindred  soul  when,  by  rare 
chance,  it  meets  one  on  its  pilgrimage — a  claim  in- 
tensified a  thousandfold  when  the  ardor  of  youth 
and  the  infinite  sweet  allurements  of  sex  enforce 
it.  Muriel  was  hers,  and  she  was  his.  Now  she 
knew  it.  And  here  was  her  one  immeasurable,  in- 
effable possession,  claimed,  and  claimed  with  some 
dread  vague  right  whose  mystery  made  it  doubly 
terrible,  by  a  person  who  could  no  more  appreciate 
the  thing  she  claimed  than  the  gorilla  could  appre- 
ciate the  human  captive  it  was  alleged  to  make.  The 


Another  Encounter, 


359 


comparison  came  from  a  picture  in  a  book  which 
she  had  glanced  into  that  very  morning.  It  took 
possession  of  her  overwrought  brain,  and  started 
a  horrible  and  bizarre  sequence  of  fantasies.  Mu- 
riel was  in  hiding  to  escape  the  gorilla,  and  yet 
(and  Nina  almost  fainted  as  the  thought  came  to 
her)  perhaps  he  was  under  an  obligation  that  he 
could  not  disregard  and  still  be  Muriel,  to  come 
back  and  yield  himself  up.  Then  the  picture 
changed.  Muriel  could  not  be  the  captive.  He 
was  too  strong.  He  would  subdue  the  horrid 
thing,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life  would  be  its 
keeper.  And  outside  the  cage  where  they  would 
.dwell,  would  pass  thought  and  art  and  high  ambi- 
tions and  sweet  love — Nina  herself  was  its  image, 
though  pale,  white-robed,  with  flowing  hair  and 
wan  eyes — and  as  they  should  pass,  Muriel  would 
see  them  all  and  yearn  for  them,  but  yearn  less  and 
less  every  day,  perhaps,  until  he  should  cease  to 
care  for  them,  or  even  to  know  them;  or  perhaps 
he  would  yearn  more  and  more,  until  he  would  try 
to  break  his  chain  of  duty,  and  Nina  could  not  let 
him  break  it,  and  then  they  would  both  go  mad. 
And  she  wondered  if  she  were  not  mad  already 
to  have  such  strange  phantasmagoria  running 
through  her  brain. 

Dragging  along,  sometimes  under  such  night- 
mares, sometimes  with  a  seeming  absence  of  feel- 
ing or  interest  in  the  matter,  she  reached  John 
Calmire's. 

At  lunch,  she  was  gayer  than  usual,  but  little 
Mrs.  John  saw  or  felt  something  in  the  gayety  that 
made  her  uneasy. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

A     SOULLESS     UNIVERSE. 

THE  next  morning,  Nina  awoke  too  early  after 
a  restless  night.  But  she  saw  definitely  before 
her  many  distinct  facts  which  she  had  hardly 
recognized  in  the  confusion  of  the  evening  be- 
fore. 

The  strangest  one  was  that  she  still  loved  a  man 
who  had  been  guilty  of  the  one,  to  her,  unnamable 
crime. 

Next  in  strangeness,  was  that  while,  at  the  first 
knowledge  of  the  crime,  she  had  instinctively  dis- 
sociated from  him  all  thought  of  deceit  and  cru- 
elty, she  had  never  in  her  life  before  thought  of 
the  crime  as  other  than  absolutely  and  unquali- 
fiedly black.  With  this,  she  remembered  some 
men's  talk  to  which  she  had  at  the  time  paid  very 
little  attention,  about  "  degrees"  of  burglary  and 
murder. 

Perhaps,  then,  there  were  degrees  of  this  unnam- 
able crime  !  And  now  her  simple,  easy  world  of 
applied  dogma — of  snap  judgment  from  a  ready- 
made  supply  kept  in  stock,  was  gone,  and  gone 
forever. 

Nina  had  no  special  intellectual  genius — she  was 
a  woman  at  best:  but  that  best  is  the  very  best, 
though  it  may  not  do  the  things — often  relatively 

360 


.  /  Sou  I  less  Universe.  361 

cheap  things — that  are  heard  of.  Yet  she  could 
do  much  that  the  commonplace  would  call  impos- 
sible. One  such  deed,  was  forming  her  present 
feeling  regarding  Muriel — considering,  on  the  ex 
parte  case  before  her,  and  in  face  of  the  vague  and 
bitter  sentiments  of  a  young  girl  regarding  the 
aberrations  of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  whether 
his  wrong,  great  as  she  felt  it  must  be,  had  neces- 
sarily involved  any  violation  of  his  honor;  and 
judicially  deciding  that  that  could  not  be.  That 
she  was  helped  to  this  feat  by  love,  does  not  de- 
tract from  its  greatness. 

On  one  point,  her  judicial  conclusion  (it  would  be 
better  to  say  her  judicial  inspiration,  for  there  was 
not  very  much  reasoning  about  it)  nearly  broke 
down.  At  first  her  mind  had  been  filled  solely  with 
thoughts  of  Muriel's  separation  from  herself:  when 
the  idea  came  that  he  had  been  unfaithful  to  her,  it 
was  a  sudden  revelation,  and  for  a  moment  was  ac- 
cepted with  the  faith  usually  inspired  by  such. 
Soon,  however,  her  characteristic  justice  asserted 
itself,  and  she  said  aloud:  "What  claim  have  I 
on  him?"  Then  she  added  to  herself:  "He  never 
gave  me  a  word  or  sign  or  look  of  love."  This 
led  her  to  ponder  over  the  details  of  the  evening 
before  he  went  away.  "  He  praised  me,"  she  said 
to  herself;  "he  showed  deep  sympathy  with  me; 
he  regretted  that  we  had  not  known  each  other 
better  earlier.  But  /  did  not  exist,  to  be  known, 
much  earlier!  I  am  not  the  same  woman  that  came 
here.  That  night  in  the  storm,  I  think —  Well, 
whatever  he  felt  toward  me,  he  carried  away  with 
him:  he  saw  no  other  woman  before  he  went." 


3^2  A  Soulless  Universe. 

In  a  moment  more,  she  sprang  from  her  chair, 
clasped  her  hands,  and  said  with  a  radiant  face  : 
"  He  left  me  that  letter !  He  left  me  that  letter  !" 
Then  she  flung  herself  on  her  bed  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

But  what  was  this  other  cloud  of  whose  presence 
she  had  been  but  very  dimly  conscious,  but  that 
now,  as  the  day  came  on,  rolled  up  until  it  shut  out 
whatever  gleams  were  in  her  uncertain  sky,  and  left 
even  her  present  universe  of  strained  ideals,  dark 
and  hopeless  ?  Muriel,  her  teacher  in  morality, 

had  been  immoral.  Slowly  it  became  perceptible 
and  grew  plainer  and  plainer  with  horrible  and 
overwhelming  distinctness,  that  the  new  basis  of 
conduct  and  life  and  faith  which  he  had  lifted  her 
to  after  her  old  one  had  disappeared,  had,  in  its 
turn,  broken  down,  and  broken  down  under  Muriel 
himself!  Nothing  was  left,  then — no  purity  01 
goodness  on  earth,  no  God  in  Heaven.  There 
was  nothing  for  her  to  rest  upon,  the  universe  was 
but  an  infinite  shifting  sea,  no  land  under  foot,  no 
star  overhead;  and  here  in  her  first  great  misery, 
when  she  most  needed  all  the  dear  consolations 
that  she  had  had  in  her  girlish  sorrows,  the  conso- 
lations were  gone  and  she  was  alone — alone — no 
God — no  Muriel. 

She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  and  strained  her 
eyes  out  to  the  steel-blue  Autumn  sky,  and  as  she 
peered  into  its  vacant  depths,  moaned  in  her  agony: 
"Empty!  empty!  empty!  Some  miles  of  air; 
then  black  cold  space ;  then  off,  off,  off,  another 
world  perhaps,  with  more  air;  then  more  space; 
and  so  on,  and  on,  and  on,  till  my  brain  whirls — 
here  and  there  more  worlds — more  suns — all  grow- 


A  Soulless  Universe.  363 

ing  cold  and  dark — but  no  Heaven  and  no  God  ! 
Only  cold,  cold,  cold  and  dark,  dark,  dark  !" 

Shuddering,  she  repeated  the  words  over  and 
over  again  in  a  half-dazed  fashion,  braiding  her 
hands  in  her  long  hair  and  straining  against  it 
as  if  it  might  be  some  such  spiritual  support  as 
she  had  been  yearning  for,  and  rocking  herself  to 
and  fro,  until  one  knee  which  rested  on  the  hard 
floor  beyond  the  rug,  began  to  pain  so  as  to  recall 
her  to  herself.  Then  she  exclaimed: 

"  What  ?     I  ?" 

Putting  one  hand  on  the  dressing-table,  she 
raised  herself,  and  said: 

"  I  can  at  least  dress  myself,  instead  of  maunder- 
ing here  like  a  lunatic." 

But  the  torturing  thoughts  would  crowd.  She 
felt  a  cold  little  gleam  of  comfort  when  her  girlish 
timidity  was  invaded  by  a  nebulous  impression  that 
some  preachers  of  the  old  faith  had  sinned  too.  But 
all  grew  doubly  black  with  the  thought:  "  That  sim- 
ply proves  their  faith  baseless.  And  the  new  faith  is 
baseless,  and  there  is-  nothing,  nothing,  nothing! 
Why,  I  wonder  that  even  the  floor  supports  me." 

When  she  looked  in  her  mirror,  she  exclaimed  in 
a  hoarse  whisper:  "  God!  What  a  face!"  But  she 
went  on  with  her  toilet,  without  ringing  for  her 
maid,  and  the  rush  of  her  thoughts  kept  on 
too. 

Suddenly  she  flung  her  brush  on  the  table  with 
a  start.  She  had  thought : 

"  Muriel  will  be  coming  back  soon.  I  must  go 
away.  I  must  escape  !  Where  shall  I  go  ?  What 
shall  I  do  ?" 


364  -A  Soulless  Universe. 

She  began  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  again  on 
the  stiff  chair  where  she  sat,  and  repeating  the 
words  until,  after  a  while,  the  sentences  began  to 
lose  their  meaning,  and  grow  into  a  faster  and 
rhythmic  sing-song  of  "Where  shall  I  go  ?  What 
shall  I  do  ?  Where  shall  I  go  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

When  the  feeling  had  spent  itself,  and  she  began 
to  reason  again,  there  came  the  question  of  how  to 
induce  her  mother  to  go,  and  how  to  explain  their 
hurried  departure  to  Mr.  Calmire.  It  had  been 
understood,  with  Nina's  glad  concurrence,  that 
they  were  to  remain  at  Fleuvemont  until  her 
father  should  return  in  November.  Now  the  ques- 
tion of  how  to  get  away,  was  a  torture;  she  had 
become  so  nervous  that  everything  was  a  torture. 
But  this  question  made  her  think  of  explanations 
to  Calmire,  and  the  thought  of  him  was  always 
restful  to  her.  She  grew  calmer  with  a  vague 
realization  that  he  too  must  know  all  the  terrible 
facts  of  this  godless  universe  which  completed  her 
despair,  and  that  he  was  cheerful  in  spite  of  them. 
Perhaps  he  could  help  her!  So  she  decided  to 
ignore  the  question  of  departure,  at  least  for  a  few 
hours  until  she  could  tell  him  that  she  had  no 
more  faiths  for  his  talk  to  disturb,  and  so  lead 
him  to  cast  any  light  he  could  on  that  blank  dark 
ness  in  her  soul  where  her  old  faiths  had  been. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MURIEL   CALMIRE    TO    LEGRAND    CALMIRE. 

WHILE  Nina  was  suffering  alone,  Calmire  was 
reading  and  answering  the  following  letter: 

"  Oct.  isth,  18 — . 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  easing  up  this  torture,  Uncle 
Grand  ?  Was  my  crime  as  great  as  my  punish- 
ment? Are  men's  punishments  in  any  way  pro- 
portioned to  the  evil  they  intend  ?  It's  not  remorse 
I'm  suffering  most  from,  at  least  as  I've  always 
imagined  remorse,  nor  even  realization  of  the  con- 
sequences of  my  crime — or  fault  or  misfortune  :  for 
I'm  not  always  quite  ready  to  admit  it  a  crime.  Yet 
sometimes,  when  I  judge  it  from  its  consequences, 
it  seems  as  if  it  must  be  the  blackest  crime  that 
man  ever  committed. 

"  But  over  and  above  all — remorse  and  dread 
and  personal  misery — I'm  simply  in  Hell  because 
I  realize  at  last  what  a  mass  of  lies  and  snares  this 
universe  is.  Beauty  and  pleasure  lied  to  me — 
everything  lies.  The  blue  water  out  there  on  the 
lake,  with  its  white-toppsd  waves  dancing  in  the 
sun,  is  only  a  treacherous  lie  :  beneath  it  are  the 
bones  of  men  it  has  drowned.  It  woos  me  to 
come  to  it :  and  it  would  drown  me  too,  if  I  did 
not  fight  it  with  my  superior  human  skill  and  will. 

365 


366       Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire. 

God  knows  I'd  like  it  to,  often  enough!  It's  a 
lie!  All  things  are  lies!  The  glib  philosophies 
that  used  to  make  things  seem  good  and  beau- 
tiful are  as  much  lies  as  the  religions.  This 
misery  has  made  me  realize  that  much  wisdom  at 
least. 

"  Look  at  the  hills.  What  are  they  but  piles  of 
dirt  ?  To  the  unthinking  man,  they  may  seem  grand 
or  fair.  But  to  us  who  know,  and  have  sense  enough 
to  keep  our  knowledge  before  us  (And  it's  only 
fools  who  ignore  such  knowledge,  and  that  is  why 
only  fools  are  happy) — to  us  who  know,  and  who  are 
manly  enough  to  face  facts,  these  hills  are  but  relics 
of  horrible  convulsions,  when  earth  seethed  and 
shook  and  burst  and  yawned,  and  heaved  up 
horrid  ridges  where  even  yet  men  lose  their  lives. 
Why,  in  Switzerland  the  other  day,  a  whole  village 
of  simple  folk,  who  had  done  no  wrong  and  medi- 
tated none,  while  they  were  in  the  very  act  of 
saying  their  prayers  to  the  merciless  being  who 
launched  all  these  terrors,  were  crushed,  smothered, 
mangled,  by  an  avalanche  of  these  same  mountains 
that  I  have  been  fool  enough  to  find  joy  in.  Some 
few  escaped  maimed,  and  a  babe  unhurt — its 
mother  dead,  and  no  living  breast  left  from  which 
to  draw  its  food.  Probably  the  poor  little  thing 
sickened  and  died  too.  And  this  is  what  is  done 
by  the  hills,  to  which  that  simple  old  fool  Solomon 
looked  up  saying  that  from  them  came  his  strength! 

"  Oh,  my  God,  (His  name  is  now  Satan,  Ahriman, 
Siva — anything  that  is  honestly  bad,  which  Jehovah 
and  his  troop  were  not,)  how  I  do  hate  cant !  How 
I  do  hate  that  milk-and-water  spirit  that  prates  of 


Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire.        367 

good — good — good,  in  a  world  whose  very  lying 
crust  of  sham  beauty  rests  over  lava-fires! 

"And  if  this  murderous  Nature  tires  of  her  big 
brutal  weapons,  what  mean  and  disgusting  poisons 
she  plays  with !  And  whom  does  she  kill  with  them  ? 
Not  those  who  have  had  their  full  share  of  the  de- 
ceitful farce  called  life,  but  the  children,  and  the 
weak  and  wretched — those  whose  innocence  or 
whose  misery  would  evoke  some  pity  from  the 
meanest  soul  of  even  mean  humanity.  But  Nature  ? 
Pity  from  her  ? 

"And  beyond  this  seething  ball  whose  cheating 
crust  swarms  with  Nature's  victims,  what  have 
you?  More  lies!  Those  clouds  and  sunset  glories 
— what  are  they  but  painted  lies  ?  Get  into  one 
of  them,  and  where  are  you  ?  In  a  fog — chilled 
to  the  bone,  damp,  seeing  nothing,  sure  of  death 
if  the  thing  be  long  continued.  And  yet,  there 
off  on  the  horizon  lies  one  (lies  one,  I  say)  that 
some  damned  fool  of  a  priest  would  call  the 
gate  of  Heaven;  or  some  damned  fool  of  a  poet 
would  yearn  for  as  a  bridal  couch  for  him  and 
the  mass  of  flesh  and  bones  and  blood  that  he  calls 
his  Love.  Why,  take  a  very  woman — the  form  of  all 
these  lies  that  has  cheated  me  most,  and  what  is  she 
but  a  mass  of  the  things  I've  named,  hidden  and  got- 
ten up  to  lure  men  to  their  doom,  by  a  pretty  skin 
which  you  can't  go  into  even  as  far  as  you  can 
into  a  man's,  without  drawing  out  the  disgusting 
blood  it  hides,  and  making  the  infernal  mechanism 
squeal  ?  What  is  that  pearly  rosy  coloring,  but  the 
same  sort  of  a  lie  as  the  painting  on  a  cloud,  or  as 
this  ocean-covered,  hill-ribbed  earth  over  the  hell 


368       Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire. 

seething  underneath  ?  Take  the  lovely-seeming 
skin  itself — what  is  it?  Old  Swift  knew.  There 
was  an  honest  man  !  You  remember  how  the 
princess  (Glumdalclitch, wasn't  it?)  of  the  big  peo- 
ple, to  Gulliver's  finer  sense  was  covered  with  pits 
and  offended  his  nostrils.  Our  women  are  beauti- 
ful and  sweet  to  us,  simply  because  we're  fools- 
weaklings;  our  perceptions  are  not  fine  enough  to 
see  what  they  are.  Yes,  and  I  suppose  I  could  be 
just  idiot  enough  again  to  kiss  one  of  them — one  of 
them!  As  if  I  dared  kiss  her  footprint! 

"And  yet  sometimes  I  don't  care,  now,  for  even 
her.  My  very  love  was  but  one  more  lie! 

"And  of  all  the  hideous  cruelties  of  this  reeking 
earth,  I'm  among  the  worst.  I'm  not  merely  rec- 
reant to  love,  but  I  meditate  murder  every  hour, 
and  it  is  only  because  I  couldn't  hide  it — and  for- 
get it — that  I  don't  commit  it. 

"  Oh,  God!     Uncle  Grand,  I  shall  go  mad  ! 

"Oct.  i4th. 

"  I  couldn't  go  on  yesterday.  I  was  tired.  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  tired  in  my  mind  until  of 
late.  Besides,  the  feeling  had  written  itself  out. 
I  had  a  momentary  notion  that  I  was  wrong  some- 
where :  one  is  not  always  strong  enough  to  be 
loyal  to  painful  convictions.  But  I've  read  the 
whole  through  calmly  to-day,  and  I  see  that  it's 
true — deeply,  damnably,  hopelessly  true. 

"But  as  I  read,  I  couldn't  help  thinking:  But 
what  does  the  whole  cursed  farce  amount  to  any- 
how.1' In  a  little  while  it's  all  over;  and  that  fact 


Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire.       369 

would  take  all  the  meaning  out  of  it,  even  if  it  were 
good  for  anything  while  it  lasts. 

"  Uncle  Grand,  I  did  think  you  were  an  honest 
man,  and  a  brave  one.  How  then,  have  you  let  me 
grow  up  in  such  a  veil  of  lies  ?  What  if  the  veil 
did  shut  out  Hell?  If  we're  in  the  midst  of  Hell, 
isn't  it  best  to  know  it  ?  I'm  not  afraid  of  Hell, 
even ;  no,  nor  of  the  fiend  who  made  it,  whether  you 
worship  him  as  God,  or,  like  the  more  honest  Per- 
sians, as  devil.  They're  not  honest  either :  for  a 
man  who  knows  enough  to  worship  a  devil,  as  they 
do,  must  know  too  much  to  worship  a  god  too,  and 
they  do  worship  one:  in  case  of  mistake,  I  suppose. 

"  Oh,  how  it  sickens  me  when  I  think  of  our  lying, 
canting  professors  there  at  college,  trying  to  cover 
the  whole  thing  over,  as  the  skin  covers  over  the 
fat  and  blood  and  skeleton  of  the  woman  !  It's  so 
queer  that  they  should  think  it  their  duty  to  lie  so  ! 
Some  of  the  old  fools  do  seem  to  be  kind  and  even 
honest  in  their  way.  They  '  think  it's  all  for  the 
best,'  I  suppose,  as  their  predecessors  did  in  in- 
quisitions and  excommunications.  The  honest  old 
church-people  would  burn  and  torture  for  their 
faith.  The  church-people  of  to-day  are  too  weak  : 
they  merely  lie. 

"  Oh,  for  the  robust  old  times,  when  a  man  could 
kill  if  he  wanted  to !  There  must  be  a  delight  in 
it !  And  perhaps  somebody  would  kill  me  ! 

"  Write  to  me,  Uncle  Grand.  Probably  you  will 
have  something  to  tell  that  will  come  as  near  kill- 
ing me  as  any  thing  can.  But  nothing  can  !  There's 
not  mercy  enough  in  the  universe  for  even  that. 

"  M." 


PART   II 

KOSMOS 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

LEGRAND    CALMIRE    TO    MURIEL    CALMIRE. 

"Oct.  I6th,  18— . 

"  I  KNOW  all  about  it,  my  poor  boy.  I  told  you 
it  would  come.  But  I  still  say  that  you'll  get 
over  it.  You're  simply  enduring  one  of  the  curses 
of — I  won't  say  genius,  but  of  the  type  of  mind 
which,  with  certain  exceptional  accompaniments, 
is  genius.  A  man  who  takes  little  from  tradition, 
but  investigates  the  universe  for  himself,  seldom 
settles  into  the  mature  convictions  he  lives  by, 
without  going  through  just  such  a  crisis  as  you're 
in  now.  Weaklings,  it  kills,  sometimes  driving 
them  to  kill  themselves.  Strong  men  live  through 
it;  and  only  after  living  through  it,  do  they  enter 
upon  their  full  strength,  and  therefore  upon  their 
full  capacity  for  happiness. 

"  I  have  \cnown,  and  now  you  know,  what  it  is  to 
envy  those  whose  necessities  are  simple  enough  to 
be  met  by  the  simple  creeds.  But  this  envy  did 
not  last  in  me,  nor  will  it  in  you.  You  will  again 
rejoice  in  dwelling  on  your  lonely  heights,  even 
amid  the  storms  that  sometimes  enclose  them.  I 
know  as  well  as  you  do,  how  lonely  you  feel  there 
now;  how  there  is  no  light  in  the  sky,  how  the  sun, 
if  it  appear  at  all,  shows  itself  only  as  a  smoulder- 
ing horror;  how  the  far-off  homes  and  peaceful 

3 


4  Le grand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

ways  of  men,  not  lit  up  by  the  natural  glow,  seem 
distorted  and  contemptible.  I  know  it  all,  my 
boy.  The  loneliness  is  one  of  the  most  terrible 
things  about  it.  But  realize  that  others  have  been 
there,  and  have  come  to  regard  this  racking  time  as 
but  an  episode,  from  which  they  have  come  back  to 
life  as  joyful  as  before,  and  strengthened  against  a 
return  of  the  same  despair. 

"  If  you  can  get  hold  of  a  copy  of  Sartor  Resartus, 
read  the  chapters,  '  The  Everlasting  No,'  '  The 
Centre  of  Indifference,'  and  'The  Everlasting  Yea.' 
The 'No 'but  seemed  everlasting.  So  far  as  hu- 
man needs  go,  the  '  Yea,'  when  reached,  is  everlast- 
ing. Possibly  you  have  read  the  chapters  before, 
but  probably  they  produced  little  effect  upon  you. 
To  get  anything  from  the  profoundest  experiences 
of  others,  one  must  bring  profound  experiences 
of  one's  own. 

"  To  Carlyle,  all  seemed  seething  flux,  no  point 
in  the  universe  whereon  to  stand.  The  first  fixed 
thing  that  came  to  him,  was  a  realization  that 
he  could  fight.  Whatever  the  forces  controlling 
things  might  be,  he  knew  that  they  were  simply 
torturing  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  at  least 
return  torture  with  struggle.  There  was  work, 
at  least,  and  work  with  a  big  inspiration — the 
right  to  fight  one's  way,  the  right  to  one's  self. 
For  ordinary  work  he  was  too  ill — one  always  is 
in  such  crises.  I  dare  say  that,  with  the  titanic 
nerves  of  our  family,  you  have  never  before  felt 
that  anything  attacking  them  could  break  your 
health.  But  I  shall  be  surprised  if  I  do  not  soon 
receive  word  that  you  are  ailing  all  over.  Carlyle 


Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire.  5 

came  out  of  his  crisis  with  a  dyspepsia  that  lasted 
him  for  life.  I  don't  think  you  will,  for  you 
are  not  Carlyle.  Neither  was  I,  but  most  of  the 
few  ills  that  my  flesh  is  heir  to,  I  trace  back  to 
those  evil  days.  Perhaps  if  I'd  had  the  soul 
to  suffer  as  he  did,  my  body  would  have  been 
as  badly  racked  as  his.  Well,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, he  found  something  to  do,  though  it  was  only 
gnawing  his  file,  and  probably  then  began  the 
realization  which  he  expressed  in  that  wonderful 
sentence:  'In  idleness  alone,  is  there  perpetual 
despair.' 

"  Of  course  your  turning-point  probably  will  not 
be  his.  It  may  be  nearer  mine,  which  I  will  tell 
you.  With  much  the  feelings  you  have  described, 
I  was  on  a  hill-top,  looking  over  the  face  of 
Nature,  no  longer  fair  to  me,  but  just  as  you  de- 
scribed it — the  hills,  dirt-heaps;  the  waters,  chill- 
ing and  deceitful  death;  the  clouds,  fog-banks;  the 
sun  itself,  a  mere  hell,  hotter  than  the  science  of 
my  boyhood  enabled  its  theology  to  express. 
'  God  '  was  the  cheat  who  had  made  all  these  lies. 
Suddenly  there  came  into  my  mind  the  thought: 
'  God  or  Devil,  whatever  made  this  universe, 
made  out  of  those  fog-banks  clouds  of  glorious 
beauty;  made  those  dirt-heaps  the  mountains  which 
are  among  my  noblest  joys,  and  have  been  the 
inspirations  of  poets  from  Solomon  down  ;  made 
that  water  not  only  beautiful,  but  a  means  of  the 
greatest  recreation  and  strength;  and  made  that 
sun,  hell  it  may  be,  a  hell  that  I,  at  least,  can't 
fall  into,  and  has  tempered  it  SL  that,  at  this  very 
moment,  it  is  life  and,  in  spite  of  myself,  vigor  to 


6  Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

me  and  to  all  the  happy  throngs  around.'  'Why, 
they  are  happy  ! '  I  remember  saying  to  myself 
with  surprise,  '  and  I  am  probably  the  only 
wretched  one  of  the  many  in  sight.' 

"  From  that  moment,  Muriel,  this  has  been  a 
different  world  to  me.  My  crisis  was  not  all  over: 
no  moment  (the  novelists  to  the  contrary,  not- 
withstanding) changes  all  one's  habits  of  thought 
and  feeling.  Before  I  could  again  count  myself  a 
happy  man,  I  had  to  go  through  many  a  period  of 
darkness,  when  the  facts  I  had  acknowledged  to 
myself  on  the  hill-top,  were  as  juiceless  as  the 
binomial  theorem.  But  I  have  never  been  any 
more  able  to  doubt  their  truth,  than  to  doubt  the 
truth  of  the  binomial  theorem.  Since  that  crisis,  I 
have  endured  anxieties  and  miseries  greater  than 
those  which  plunged  me  into  it — as  great  as  can 
be  thrown  upon  man,  and  he  be  left  alive  and  sane 
—my  eyes  have  been  blind  to  sweet  sights  and  my 
ears  deaf  to  sweet  sounds,  most  of  my  reason  has 
been  paralyzed,  (In  our  race  it  never  all  goes);  in 
short,  there  has  been  little,  for  the  time,  but  a 
realization  of  that  fact  which  is  as  indestructible 
as  any  fact  in  human  consciousness  can  be,  that 
out  of  the  materials  called  base,  Nature  is  con- 
stantly producing  beauty.  But  with  that  in  mind, 
a  man  can't  find  things  wholly  bad. 

"  And  along  with  that  fact,  comes  a  troop  of  other 
facts  equally  indestructible  and  equally  sustaining. 
For  one:  Nature  makes  haste  to  hide  her  ugly  work: 
wander  for  hours,  and  the  chances  are  that  your 
senses  will  not  be  offended  by  what  she  has  killed. 
For  one  bird  slain,  you  see  and  hear  a  myriad  beauti- 
ful and  happy.  Their  lives  are  hours,  weeks,  months, 


Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire.  7 

years  of  joy;  their  deaths,  but  moments  of  pain. 
So  through  all  animate  nature,  even  to  man  with 
his  Atlas-burden  of  thought.  You  know  that  at  a 
given  hour,  most  men  are  happy.  This  I  have  had  to 
acknowledge  to  myself  at  moments  when  my  soul 
was  full  with  all  the  misery  it  could  hold.  I  have 
doubted,  as  every  reasoning  man  undergoing  the 
ordinary  fate  of  mortals  must  sometimes  doubt, 
whether  life  holds  joys  enough  to  compensate  its 
inevitable  woes;  but  these  doubts,  candid  men,  with 
very  few  exceptions,  will  tell  you  are  the  experiences 
of  but  moments  in  days,  or  but  days  in  years,  or 
perhaps  of  years  in  lifetimes. 

"  But  Nature  who  has  made  the  beauty  you  can't 
escape,  has  made  the  organism  which  feels  it,  and 
has  made  that  organism  so  that  under  the  vast 
majority  of  conditions,  if  in  health,  it  will  feel  the 
beauty.  You  who  have  hitherto  been  well  and 
happy,  have  never  before  had  occasion  to  realize 
the  importance  of  that  provision.  But  the  truth  is 
that  the  machine  that  takes  in  the  beauty  or  enjoys 
the  sensation  of  whatever  kind,  can  only  do  it  when 
in  order:  and  nothing  throws  it  out  of  order  more 
effectually  than  sorrow  and  anxiety.  What  you 
call  your  disloyalty  in  love,  is  simply  shock  and 
fatigue  of  your  nervous  system;  and  because  it  is 
sometimes  incapable  of  feeling  even  the  emotion 
of  love,  you  are  morbidly  suspicious  of  your  loyalty. 
The  fact  is  that  even  the  healthiest  man,  is  not  keen 
for  anything  at  all  times.  If  his  attention  is  ab- 
sorbed in  one  thing,  he  cannot  often  turn  instantly 
to  another  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his  being. 

"  In   this   connection,   take   that   part   of    your 


8  Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

letter  whose  perverse  ingenuity  hardly  justifies 
its  unsavoriness,  though  it  makes  me  feel  the 
agony  which  caused  it,  and  pity  you  with  my 
whole  soul.  To  the  Brobdingnagians,  Glumdal- 
clitch  was  beautiful.  You  admit  that  to  your 
tastes,  though  trouble  has  disordered  them  for  a 
time,  at  least  one  woman  is  sometimes  beautiful 
still.  Now  what  you  were  finding  out-of-joint, 
was  simply  a  disturbance  in  nervous  relations. 
All  happiness,  whether  derived  from  woman's 
beauty  or  any  other  source,  is  simply  a  question  of 
the  relation  between  the  recipient  and  the  exter- 
nal cause,  and  when  the  nerves  are  in  order,  they 
keep  those  relations  correct.  The  swine's  correct  re- 
lations make  them  glory  in  what  disgusts  you:  give 
them  your  senses,  and  what  disgusts  you  would 
disgust  them  too.  There  are  other  creatures  who 
glory  in  what  the  swine  discard:  give  them  the 
senses  of  the  swine,  and  the  things  would  disgust 
them  too.  Glumdalclitch  pleased  the  Brobding- 
nagians: she  disgusted  Gulliver. 

"But  be  very  careful  not  to  let  what  I  have  just 
said,  blind  you  to  the  all-important  fact  that  there 
are  a  positive  and  a  negative.  The  man  is  supe- 
rior to  the  swine;  the  swine,  to  the  creatures  who 
live  on  what  swine  refuse. 

"  Yet  while  we  know  a  positive  and  a  negative, 
we  are  not  made  to  know  an  absolute.  All  we 
can  attain,  is  relative:  for  us,  at  least,  there  is  no 
ultimate.  The  astronomer  talks  of  enormous  dis- 
tances, but  so  does  the  microscopist.  What  makes 
either  distance  great,  is  simply  its  relation  to  a  less 
one.  Now  as  we  cannot  really  conceive  an  abso- 


Lfgrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire.  9 

lutely  great  or  small,  so  we  cannot  conceive  abso- 
lutely agreeable  or  disagreeable.  Happiness  de- 
pends almost  as  much  upon  capacity  to  ignore 
some  things,  as  upon  the  capacity  to  enjoy 
others;  and  every  normal  person  under  normal 
circumstances  possesses  that  capacity  to  ignore: 
its  absence  is  one  of  the  first  marks  of  an  abnormal 
condition:  the  droning  bee  of  the  Summer  noon, 
which  helps  the  loiterer's  revery,  grates  on  the  ear 
of  the  man  whose  nerves  are  all  on  edge.  That  ill 
health  and  sorrow  so  upset  our  nerves,  is  one  of  the 
worst  of  the  maladjustments  that  we  have  to  face. 
Sometimes  the  very  things  which  we  most  need 
to  resist,  are  the  ones  most  fatal  to  our  powers  of 
resistance.  But  so  it  is,  and  we  have  to  make  the 
best  we  can  of  it. 

"  You  see  I  don't  attempt  to  blink  facts.  Find  all 
the  fault  you  please  with  your  theological  friends 
for  doing  it.  To  the  healthy  man,  under  average 
circumstances,  there  is  no  need  to  blink  anything; 
with  keen  senses  and  clean  conscience,  he  finds 
enough  to  occupy  him  in  real  things  and  does 
not  bother  himself  much  with  the  questions 
that  tempt  to  blinking.  Most  of  them  are  insol- 
uble, and  the  wise  man  acknowledges  the  fact. 
When  he  is  ordinarily  well  and  happy,  he  can  be 
consistent  enough  to  leave  those  questions  alone. 
When  he  is  too  young  or  too  blind  to  realize  their 
insolubility,  of  course  he  fools  with  them,  and 
when  he  is  ill  or  wretched,  it  takes  more  than  the 
strongest  man's  strength  or  the  wisest  man's  expe- 
rience to  keep  his  hands  entirely  off  them.  The 
churches  knew  that  the  speculations  on  sin  and 


IO          Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

death  must  come  from  the  ascetic's  sick  body. 

"  You've  even  got  the  theological  prejudice 
against  the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest — or  the 
destruction  of  the  least  fit.  The  law  was  not  known 
in  my  early  time  of  trouble:  if  it  had  been,  prob- 
ably I  should  have  misread  it  as  you  do.  But 
surely,  as  death  is  here,  it  is  most  merciful  that 
it  comes  quickest  to  those  who  have  no  dread  of 
it,  and  to  those  who  have  least  to  lose  by  it.  Mu- 
riel miserable  invokes  it:  Muriel  happy  shunned 
it. 

"Astoyourbloodstainedconscience,don'tletthat 
bother  you  any  more.  A  repenting  man  is  always 
morbidly  conscientious.  It  is  inevitable  to  a  man  of 
your  imagination  that  nearly  all  the  possible  ways 
out  of  a  complication  should  present  themselves, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  he  is  any  more  willing 
to  adopt  the  bad  ones,  than  if  he  were  too  stupid  to 
imagine  them.  You  couldn't  kill  anybody,  unless 
it  were  deserved. 

"What  a  long  letter  I've  written!  I've  been  in- 
terrupted since  the  last  paragraph,  and  will  leave 
some  more  of  your  points  calling  for  notice,  until 
my  next. 

"  Affairs  here  are  in  statu  quo.  On  one  thing  I 
am  clear,  however— clearer,  if  possible,  every  day. 
You  are  under  no  obligation  to  pretend  to  right 
your  wrong  by  sacrifices  which,  even  to  the  people 
you  are  bound  to  stand  by,  would  result  in  more 
misery  than  happiness.  The  best  that  can  be  done, 
when  we  determine  what  it  is,  will  be  bad  enough; 
but  your  making  a  mutually  destructive  marriage 
is  not  yet  demonstrated  the  best, 


Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire.         r  I 

"  Our  friends  are  with  me  still;  and  it  will  do  you 
as  much  good  as  harm,  to  tell  you  that  the  younger 
is  sad.  I  know  that  you  would  not  have  her  lied 
to,  and  that  that  very  fact  is  at  the  root  of  at  least 
half  your  hopelessness.  Could  she  once  get  hold  of 
that  fact — of  what  I  know  to  be  true  of  you,  my 
boy, — that,  whether  you  are  God  or  Devil,  you 
would  not  be,  to  a  woman  you  love,  other  than 
yourself,  there  is  no  knowing  what  her  great 
nature  is  capable  of. 

"  You'd  better  leave  that  place  where  you  are, 
and  'take  to  the  woods.'  I  don't  want  anybody  to 
know  where  you  are  just  now,  and  in  a  big  town 
somebody  may  happen  along  and  recognize  you. 
Keep  in  the  open  air  all  you  can.  But  when  you 
are  housed,  take  up  something  that  will  divert 
your  mind.  Your  tendency  will  be  to  read  your 
one  subject  into  everything.  Try  not  to.  I  wish 
you  had  a  taste  for  mathematics.  Couldn't  you 
work  at  logic  ?  You  need  actual  work :  if  you  can 
grasp  hold  of  it  now,  which  I'm  not  sure  you  can. 

"Oh!  You'd  better  write  so  that  your  letters 
would  convey  to  a  third  person  nothing  that  you 
would  not  wish  them  to.  There's  no  knowing 
where  a  scrap  of  paper  may  go. 

"  You  know  I  love  you." 

This  letter  had  no  signature  or  form  of  address, 
but  only  a  date;  the  place  of  writing,  even,  was  not 
named. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

REVELATION. 

NINA'S  restlessness  had  brought  her  downstairs 
before  her  mother  or  Calmire,who  was  busy  with 
the  foregoing  letters;  and  a  little  walk  in  the  sun 
amid  the  bright  leaves  and  the  few  lingering  flow- 
ers, made  her  vigorous  youth  assert  itself,  and  sent 
her  to  the  breakfast-room  in  better  case  than  half 
an  hour  before  would  have  seemed  possible. 

She  saw  now  what  a  woman  of  but  ordinary  wo- 
manliness might  not  have  seen,  and  she  realized 
that  it  had  been  true  for  a  week — that  Calmire  was 
in  trouble;  and  he  saw,  as  he  had  suspected  the 
night  before,  that  she  was;  and  each  saw  that  the 
other  saw  it.  Calmire  felt  his  large  gentleness 
and  pity  stirred  even  before  he  asked  himself 
whether  his  own  trials,  of  which  he  supposed 
her  ignorant,  might  not  also  be  trials  in  store  for 
her.  She  felt  a  shrinking  from  talking  with  him  as 
she  had  determined,  but  with  her  tendency,  when 
anything  was  to  be  done,  to  do  it,  she  brushed  the 
reluctance  aside  in  her  large  way,  and  having  sent 
her  mother  off  on  some  pretext  while  Calmire  was 
on  the  piazza  with  his  cigar,  she  came  up  pale  and 
languid,  in  terrible  contrast  to  her  usual  sprightly 
way,  seated  herself  squarely  in  front  of  him,  and 
said  : 

"  You  must  talk  to  me !" 

His  pulse  stopped.     He  was  so  full  of  one  sub- 


Revelation.  1 3 

ject  that,  before  he  reflected,  he  thought  she  must 
be  alluding  to  it.  But  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  his 
cigar,  knocked  the  ash  from  it,  realized  that  he  had 
no  grounds  for  his  suppositions,  and  in  a  second 
turned  to  her  smiling,  and  said: 

"  Commands  from  such  a  superior  should  be 
cheerfully  obeyed.  What  am  I  to  talk  about  ?" 

"About  everything,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Where  am  I  to  begin  ?" 

"  Mr.  Calmire,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  keeps 
you  calm  and  good  when  you  don't  believe  any- 
thing. There's  nothing  to  keep  me  so.  I  don't  be- 
lieve anything  any  more.  You  needn't  any  longer 
be  afraid  of  disturbing  me.  Talk  to  me  now." 

"Well,"  said  Calmire  to  himself.  "  So  Muriel's 
kindergarten  has  turned  out  a  graduate  !  Ah  me  ! 
I've  got  to  take  hold  at  last !"  He  little  realized 
for  how  much  more  than  mere  intellectual  disturb- 
ance, Muriel  was  responsible.  He  had,  however, 
a  quick  return  of  the  suspicion  he  had  intimated  to 
Muriel — that  Nina's  trouble  was  deeper  than  creeds 
go,  and  he  was  anxious  as  to  the  cause;  but  with- 
out wasting  time  in  conjectures,  he  determined  that 
it  was  best  to  follow  her  lead  right  on.  So  he  an- 
swered: 

"  Though  you  say  I  don't  believe  anything,  I 
probably  believe  many  times  as  much  as  you  ever 
did — as  you  have  yet  had  time  to.  Nevertheless 
you  know  most  of  the  truths  that  help  anybody 
to  be  'good  and  calm,'  as  well  as  anybody  knows 
them.  But  you  don't  appreciate  that  they  are 
the  truths  which  really  do  the  work,  and  you  are 
letting  yourself  be  disturbed  over  some  other 


14  Revelation, 

notions  which  people  have  associated  with  those 
essential  truths.  Possibly  those  notions  are  of 
some  value  to  some  people,  but  not  to  the  woman 
you  are  growing  to  be." 

"  But  who  is  to  decide  what  is  really  true?"  she 
asked.  "  People  differ  so." 

"That's  a  big  question — the  test  of  truth,"  he 
said.  "In  the  first  place,  we  have  to  determine 
what  we  mean  by  truth." 

"Are  you  going  to  be  very  tiresome,  Mr.  Cal- 
mire?" 

Her  bantering  way  of  saying  it  was  so  charming 
that  Timon  himself  could  not  have  been  offended. 
Calmire  laughed  heartily  and  said: 

"  I  hope  not,  dear,  but  I'm  afraid  I  may,  and  I 
see  plainly  that  you  are  not  feeling  well.  Hadn't 
we  better  put  it  off?" 

Eager  as  she  had  been  for  something  to  tie  her 
poor  little  boat  to,  she  was  not  eager,  with  her 
aching  head,  to  have  it  dragged  after  a  long-drawn 
analysis.  She  had  the  yearning  natural  to  one  who 
has  been  depending  on  alleged  short-cuts  to  truth, 
for  some  new  short-cut  across  the  waste  of  her  per- 
plexities. She  wanted  a  "saving  word."  She  did 
not  realize  that  no  brief  word  can  contain  what 
she  needed;  and  the  slow,  laborious  construction  of 
a  system,  however  impregnable,  was  scarcely  in  her 
mind,  and  not  to  her  taste  at  all.  Yet,  so  far,  the 
talk  had  diverted  her  a  little  from  the  tortures  she 
had  been  enduring,  and  the  prospect  of  relinquish- 
ing it,  even  to  escape  some  tedious  logic,  brought 
her  face  to  face  with  the  tortures  again.  She 
eagerly  begged  Calmire  to  go  on. 


Revelation.  \  5 

"Well,  dear,"  he  said,  "some  people  say  there 
are  two  kinds  of  truth,  human  and  divine.  That 
seems  to  me  plainly  impossible.  I  can  conceive  of 
only  one  kind  of  truth,  and  the  portion  of  it  which 
we  have,  we  have  had  to  learn  from  experience.  It 
is,  of  course,  largely  incorporated  in  the  religions. 
But  it  is  contradicted  right  and  left  by  some  state- 
ments in  the  religions,  and  so  their  followers  try 
to  make  them  out  to  be  a  superior  kind  of  truth." 

"But,  Mr.  Calmire,  mere  human  truth  is  so 
limited.  One  can  see  so  little  for  oneself." 

"  The  trouble  about  your  beliefs,  is  that  you 
have  supposed  it  necessary  to  believe  a  great 
many  things  that  you  cant  'see  for  yourself.' 
What  you  can  see  for  yourself,  is  limited,  I  ad- 
mit, but  human  experience  is  the  only  source  of 
truth  we've  got,  and  when  we  imagine  that  we 
have  any  more,  we  get  into  trouble.  All  the  sub- 
stantial operations  of  our  lives  are  conducted  on 
experience;  and  all  our  blunders  come  because  we 
have  not  enough  of  it.  We've  enough  for  practical 
purposes,  however,  or  at  least  enough  to  secure  all 
the  happiness  at  present  within  our  reach;  for  ex- 
perience and  experience  alone  does  just  that." 

"  What  ?     The  faiths  don't  help  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Only,"  he  answered,  "  that  portion  of  the  faiths 
which  are  pointed  to  by  experience:  though  it  is 
claimed,  with  doubtful  justice,  that  some  people 
couldn't  get  that  portion  without  the  fanciful 
portion.  For  instance,  experience  really  says 
that,  within  reasonable  limits,  'it  is  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive  : '  but  religion  says  it  too, 
and  as  it's  not  a  very  obvious  truth,  a  great  many 


1 6  Revelation, 

people  believe  it  (or  think  they  do),  not  as  matter 
of  experience,  but  as  matter  of  religion.  Now 
that's  all  very  well,  so  long  as  they  don't  profess  tc 
believe  against  experience,  for  then  harm  comes 
— the  wastes  of  asceticisms,  religious  wars  and  per- 
secutions, human  hearts  torn  out  on  the  altars  of 
imaginary  gods,  both  physically  and  emotionally 
— like  poor —  He  hesitated,  but  some  impulse 
prompted  him  to  add,  "  poor  Mary  Courtenay's." 

"  Mary's  !  Oh,  I've  so  wanted  to  know  her  life. 
Can't  you  tell  me  of  it  ?" 

"  Perhaps,  some  time.  Let  me  go  on  now  with 
what  I  was  trying  to  make  clear  to  you.  Do  you 
suppose  the  so-called  mysteries  of  religion — its 
preposterous  assertions  and  self-contradictions, 
made  the  saints  and  martyrs,  and  make  so  many 
good  men  in  the  church  to-day  ?  Do  you  suppose 
it  was  that  part  of  religion  that  men  have  died 
for,  or,  even  if  a  few  have,  that  it  was  that  part 
which  sustained  them  in  dying  ?" 

"  Well,  in  pity's  name,  what  was  it  then  ?  For  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  am  dying  too — for  want  of  it." 

"  It  was  not  often  dogma,  if  ever,  but  what  lay 
under  the  dogma — the  morality  that  men  have 
been  learning  through  all  their  experience,  and  the 
simple  faith  in  the  Infinite  Power  and  Infinite  Law 
which,  in  the  religions  and  out,  under  the  name  of 
every  beneficent  God  ever  worshipped,  has  inspired 
the  best  men  through  all  history." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Calmire,  and  it  is  just  that  faith  which 
I  have  lost.  In  some  respects  my  mind  since  I  have 
been  here  has  been  widened.  I  have  grown  to  a 
cold  intellectual  recognition  that  love  for  mankind 


Revelation.  17 

is  the  noblest  basis  of  right-doing,  if  any  basis  is 
good  for  anything;  and  that  there  are  no  freaks  in 
the  merciless  Power  that  governs  us.  But  I  have  not 
the  kind  of  faith  in  any  of  it  that  can  sustain  and 
comfort  anybody.  I've  gained  Altruism,  and  I've 
gained  Law,  and  they're  two  very  big-sounding 
words  for  a  girl  to  be  able  to  use,  but — I  have  lost 
God." 

"That  'cold  intellectual  recognition,'"  he  an- 
swered, "  will  grow  into  something  warmer,  and 
those  '  big-sounding  words'  will  come  to  mean  more 
to  you,  perhaps,  than  any  other  words  have  yet 
meant.  And  as  to  losing  God:  you  mean,  that  you 
have  lost  a  lot  of  primitive  and  gratuitous  notions 
regarding  God." 

"  I  have  lost  all  I  had,  and  where  God  was,  there 
is  now  nothing  but  unfeeling  machinery.  My 
deepest  soul  finds  nothing  to  respond  to." 
Calmire  pondered  a  moment  and  then  said: 
"I  suspect  that  it  has  pretty  much  all  to  respond 
to  that  it  ever  had,  but  that  communication  has 
been  interrupted.  We  must  see  if  we  can't  open 
up  some  new  lines:  but  that's  not  the  work  of  a 
day.  Suppose,  though,  I  give  you  something  to 
think  about.  In  many  days,  it  may  come  to  have 
a  meaning  to  you." 

"  Give  me  anything — a  straw,  for  I  am  drowning." 
Calmire  pondered  again,  and  then  turned  toward 
her  with  a  curiously  complex  smile,  and  said: 
"  Shut  your  eyes  and  stop  your  ears." 
"What?     Oh  don't  play  with  me  now." 
"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  taking  and  caressing 
her  hand,  "  I  never  was  more  serious  in  my  life. 


t 8  Revelation. 

Besides,"  he  added,  looking  up  and  smiling  again, 
"  I'm  only  asking  you  to  do  what  the  orthodox 
teachers  ask.  They  want  you  to  give  up  the  use  of 
your  senses:  now  try  to  do  the  same  for  me  a  little 
while.  I  really  do  want  you  to  shut  out  all  sight 
and  sound,  and  to  remain  in  that  condition  as  long 
as  you  can.  Can  you  imagine  yourself  deaf  and 
blind?" 

"  Imagine  it?     I've  known  it." 

"Why,  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"  Once  in  the  Poz/i  at  Venice,  I  wanted  to  see 
how  it  must  have  felt  to  be  imprisoned  there,  and  I 
lingered  behind  my  friends  and  put  out  my  taper." 

"There's  not  another  girl  in  creation  who'd  have 
done  that !  Weren't  you  frightened  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't  think  of  that  ;  I  knew  my  friends 
would  come  back  for  me." 

"  Well,  how  did  you  feel  ?" 

"  There  was  no  world  left,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I 
had  extinguished  my  soul." 

"  So  your  soul  seems  to  be  largely  a  matter  of 
sight  and  sound,  doesn't  it?  But  in  those  dun- 
geons you  couldn't  experience  exactly  what  I  have 
in  mind.  I  want  you  to  try  it  again  here — to  get 
your  mind  and  senses  as  nearly  vacant  as  possible 
— to  obliterate  yourself  as  far  as  you  can,  and 
when  thought  and  memory  insist  on  reasserting 
themselves,  yield  and  open  your  eyes.  It's  too 
light  out  here,  come  into  the  hall." 

They  went  in  out  of  the  glare.  Calmire  gave  her 
a  seat,  and  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  put  her  little 
hands  over  her  little  ears.  She  succeeded  so  well 
in  losing  herself  in  the  silent  darkness  that  in 


Revelation.  19 

about  four  minutes,  which  she  supposed  fifteen, 
she  had  almost  lost  consciousness,  but  then  she 
found  herself  thinking,  with  a  sort  of  horror,  how 
black  and  empty  such  life  would  be,  and  opened 
her  eyes. 

Before  her,  under  the  arch  of  the  doorway,  was 
the  infinitely  deep  blue  sky;  far  off,  near  the  hori- 
zon, it  grew  softer  and  touched  the  hills  mellowed 
by  the  Autumn  haze.  They  were  still  green,  with 
faint  patches  of  brown  and  yellow  and  dark  forests 
of  pine,  and  here  and  there  the  subdued  flame  of 
an  Autumn  maple  or  the  gold  of  an  elm.  Under 
t  he  hills,  the  river  was  a  little  misty  too,  but  nearer, 
it  reflected  the  blue  of  the  upper  sky,  save  for  one  dot 
of  white  sail;  and  in  the  foreground  was  the  soft 
curve  of  the  hill  of  green  lawn,  with  bold  masses 
of  nearer  flame  and  gold  and  red-bronzed  oak 
and  dark  green  pines.  On  the  outer  edge  of  the 
hill,  over  the  rich  brown  line  of  the  road,  came 
patiently  two  great  shining  white  and  yellow  oxen 
with  their  cart.  Contrasted  with  the  darkness  and 
vacancy  Nina  had  just  emerged  from,  Nature's 
beauty  appealed  to  her  as  it  had  never  appealed 
before.  After  some  moments  of  rapt  silence,  she 
said  quietly: 

"  How  inexpressibly  lovely  !  It  is  a  revelation  !" 
"  Precisely!"  answered  Calmire.  "  And  it  was  be- 
cause I  wanted  you  to  realize  it  as  a  revelation, 
that  I  got  you  to  shut  yourself  out  from  it.  It 
even  surprised  you,  though  you  were  familiar  with 
it.  Now  try  to  realize  (as  you  could  not  have  done 
ten  minutes  ago,  though  you  have  thought  of  it 
often)  what  a  revelation  sight  must  bring  when  a. 


2O  Revelation. 

surgeon  gives  it  to  a  blind  person.  Just  think  it 
over  a  minute.  I  have  a  purpose  in  all  this,"  he 
added  with  a  smile. 

After  a  little  time  she  said:  "Well,  I  think  I 
have  some  such  realization  as  you  wished  me  to  get. 
It  must  surpass  anything  anybody  ever  dreamed. 
It  must  be  so  with  hearing  too,  and  to  some  ex- 
tent with  the  other  senses.  But  why  have  you 
made  me  do  all  this  ?" 

"  Partly  (but  not  mainly)  to  try  to  get  you  to 
recognize  that  the  revelations  we  get  from  Nature, 
direct  through  our  own  senses,  are  not. so  much  to 
be  despised  after  all.  You  said  a  few  minutes  ago, 
that  without  certain  dogmas  of  your  old  religion, 
there  was  nothing  left.  Yet  you  also  said  that 
shutting  out  light  and  sound  extinguished  your 
soul:  so,  after  all,  your  soul  seems  to  get  a  large 
part  of  its  significance  from  light  and  sound,  as  well 
as  from  your  old  dogmas.  Now  the  fact  is  that 
even  when  the  dogmas  are  gone,  everything  real  is 
left.  Think  it  over  a  moment,  and  then  I'll  try  to 
give  you  some  farther  points  more  significant  still." 

After  a  little  meditation  Nina  said  :  "  Yes,  I  have 
been  wrong — stupidly,  foolishly  wrong,  in  under- 
estimating what  we  have  outside  of  the  religions. 
I  had  been  taught  to  believe  that  without  Christi- 
anity the  world  must  mean  nothing." 

"That  Egypt  and  Greece  and  Rome  and  India, 
and  China  and  Japan  meant  nothing !"  commented 
Calmire. 

"  Yes  !"  said  Nina,  "  and  now  what  can  you  tell 
me  more  significant  than  showing  me  my  foolish 
blunder?" 


Revelation.  2 1 

"Well!"  responded  Calmire.  "We  have  used 
the  word  '  revelation  '  several  times,  in  conqection 
with  your  appreciation  of  what  Nature  shows  us  of 
itself.  Now  I  want  to  help  you  realize  that  the  word 
was  no  metaphor,  but  that  all  we  know  is  actually  a 
revelation  from  an  infinite  Something  under  it  and 
pervading  it  all — a  revelation  that  it  has  taken  mil- 
lions of  years  to  bring  to  what  it  is,  that  is  still  in 
creasing,  and  that  we  can  increase  for  ourselves,' 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  that's  all  very 
grand  but  very  bewildering:  and  y*et  somehow  it 
doesn't  seem  altogether  unthinkable." 

"  Of  course  it's  not,"  Calmire  answered;  "  people 
have  had  glimpses  of  it  as  long  as  they  have 
guessed,  but  we've  got  much  new  light  on  it  of 
late  years,  and  if  you  ever  get  a  clear  realization 
of  it,  you  won't  talk  as  you  were  just  talking — about 
having  lest  God,  and  having  nothing  left:  you'll 
find  new  reasons  to  believe  that  you  can't  lose 
God,  and  that  everything  means  God.  Now, 

to  begin  with,  do  you  believe  in  evolution  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  that  we're  descended  from 
monkeys." 

"  Now  do  try  to  get  rid  of  that  cheap  prejudice  ! 
I'm  afraid  that  some  of  the  ancestors  we're  forced 
to  acknowledge,  were  worse  in  some  respects  than 
even  the  monkeys:  I  never  heard  of  an  assembly 
of  monkeys  enjoying  seeing  a  lot  of  their  own  kind 
killed  by  stronger  beasts  ;  or  worse  still,  enjoying 
seeing  a  lot  of  their  own  kind  kill  each  other.  But 
so  long  as  we  are  what  we  are,  what  difference  does 
it  make  what  our  ancestors  were?  I  did  not  ask 


22  Revelation. 

you,  however,  whether  you  like  the  doctrine  of  evo- 
lution,   I  asked  whether  you  believe  it." 

"  I  suppose  I've  got  to." 

"  Well  then,  don't  make  faces  over  it  as  if  you 
were  biting  a  lemon,  but  glory  in  the  progress 
your  family  has  made.  Somehow  women  don't 
seem  to  welcome  truth — to  believe  that  it  must  be 
better  than  any  mistaken  conviction,  no  matter 
how  deeply  cherished." 

"  Do  all  men  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Oh  certainly,  certainly  !"  said  Calmire,  laugh- 
ing. "But  let's  assume  that  you  believe  in  evolu- 
tion, as,  of  course,  all  men  do.  Now  try  to  follow 
me  closely,  please.  Millions  of  years  ago,  your  ances 
tors,  you  know,  were  far  humbler  than  the  monkeys 
— bits  of  protoplasm  or  tloating  jelly,  with  virtually 
no  senses,  no  thoughts,  no  feelings.  Try  and  im- 
agine what  the  universe  must  have  been  to  them — 
blank  darkness  and  silence,  somewhat  as  you  felt 
it  in  Venice,  and  tried  to  feel  it,  or  rather  to  be  in- 
sensible to  it,  a  few  minutes  ago — virtually  no  uni- 
verse at  all — nothing  revealed,  no  '  revelations/  " 

"Yes,"  she  responded,  "  I  experienced  a  little  of 
what  they  must  have  found  it." 

"  No,"  said  Calmire,  "  I  doubt  if  we  can  begin  to 
realize  the  vacancy  they  lived  in:  we  cannot  get  rid 
of  our  memories  of  sights  and  sounds,  and  our 
highly  evolved  sense  of  touch.  But  a  creature  who 
never  had  any  senses  could  not  have  even  memories. 
To  the  first  creature  that  had  a  sense,  though, — say 
only  the  faintest  sense  of  touch,  the  universe  had 
some  little  meaning — a  little  something  of  it  was 
'revealed,'  To  the  one  who  first  felt  a  difference 


Revelation.  23 

between  heat  and  cold,  more  was  revealed;  more 
still  in  the  difference  between  sound  and  silence; 
still  more  when  one  could  feel  a  difference  between 
light  and  darkness;  and  then  by  slow  additions 
were  revealed  the  differences  in  sound  and  color. 
So  by  insensible  degrees,  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration, new  revelations  have  been  added,  with  new 
capacities  for  receiving  them,  until  at  last  you've 
reached  your  share,  and  to  you  are  revealed  such 
things  as  this  beautiful  scene  before  us,  and  all  I 
tried  to  get  you  to  realize  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"But  what  does  all  that  prove?"  Nina  inter- 
rupted. 

"  Simply  that,  as  every  experience  is  a  revelation 
from  the  source  of  experiences,  where  there  are 
revelations,  there  is  a  something  to  be  revealed. 
All  we  know,  is  a  mere  film  over  Something  be- 
neath, which  we  cannot  measure — something  to 
which  we  can  assign  no  bounds — an  Infinite;  and 
through  our  senses  It  has  been  to  some  degree 
revealed  to  us,  and  revealed  naturally  and  truth- 
fully." 

"But  that's  all  merely  material,"  objected  Nina. 
"What  has  it  to  do  with  making  people  good  ?" 

"  After  a  while,  you  won't  so  despise  the  '  merely 
material,'  and  it  happens  to  be  by  comparing  the 
'  merely  material  'truths  revealed  by  the  senses,  that 
we  have  learned  the  higher  body  of  truths  which 
'  make  people  good  '  :  so  moral  truths  are  primarily 
revelations  from  the  same  Infinite  Source  with  the 
material  ones.  All  truth  grew  up  by  the  slow  de- 
grees I  have  indicated.  All  truth  is  revela- 
tion. Your  immediate  trouble  is  that  men  have 


24  Revelation. 

asserted  so  many  imaginary  and  unnatural  revela- 
tions, that  when  the  fancied  revelations  are  proved 
mistaken,  one  is  driven,  as  you  have  been,  to  over- 
look the  true  ones.  But  the  true  ones  are  there,  they 
are  the  only  body  of  truths  on  which  all  men,  so 
far  as  they  know  them,  agree  :  and  the  source  of 
those  truths  does  exist,  and  is  the  only  actual  real- 
ity corresponding  with  what  you  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  calling  '  God.'  There  have  been  a  myriad 
conceptions  regarding  it,  for  all  sorts  of  divinities 
and  anthropomorphic  fancies  have  been  put  be- 
hind the  actual  revelations  of  Nature:  and  now 
simply  because  much  that  was  mistaken  in  your 
conceptions,  has  disappeared,  you  feel  that  the 
fundamental  Verity  behind  the  conceptions  has 
disappeared  too.  But  it  is  there  all  the  same, 
and  much  clearer  to  us  than  it  was  to  Moses  or 
Buddha  or  Paul.  But  you  have  got  to  learn  to 
recognize  it  with  our  eyes,  and  not  with  theirs. 
Now  I  am  forced  to  leave  you,  and  I  have  but 
barely  opened  the  subject,  but  we  will  talk  this 
over  some  more  this  evening." 

She  gave  a  start,  and  put  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Calmire. 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  Some  little  stitch  in  my  side." 
But  she  kept  him  until  she  learned  (quite  diplomati- 
cally, she  flattered  herself)  that  Muriel  would  not 
be  back  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE    NATURAL    AND    THE    SUPERNATURAL. 

AFTER  dinner,  Nina  furnished  her  mother  some 
pretext  for  going  away,  and  that  lady  was  of  course 
always  ready  to  leave  the  girl  with  Calmire.  When 
they  were  alone  before  the  logs  in  the  drawing- 
room,  she  began  by  saying  : 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  said  '  revelations  '  this  morn- 
ing, with  any  real  feeling  that  they  were  revela- 
tions. It  was  simply  a  fashion  of  speaking.  I  see 
what  I  see,  and  hear  what  I  hear,  but,  despite  your 
reasoning,  the  idea  that  there  is  anything  more 
than  I  hear  or  see,  does  not  yet  really  take  posses- 
sion of  me." 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Calmire.  "It's  too 
new.  It  needs  looking  at  often,  and  from  many 
sides.  Now,  if  it  won't  bore  you,  let's  begin  again 
with  our  '  protoplasmic  ancestor."  " 

"  I  shall  be  charmed  to  renew  his  acquaintance," 
said  Nina. 

"  Well,"  continued  Calmire,  "  I  have  the  honor  to 
introduce  to  you,  not  one,  but  those,  generally,  who 
first  had  any  consciousness  of  differences  in  things 
outside  of  themselves.  Let's  go  into  their  ex- 
periences a  little  more  in  detail  than  we  did  this 
morning.  Of  course  I  won't  attempt  to  give  the 
exact  chronological  order,  but  merely  to  give  the 


26          The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural. 

Subject  in  a  general  way.  They  must  have  found 
some  things  pleasanter  than  others — soft  contacts 
pleasanter  than  harsh  ones,  even  surfaces  than 
cutting  ones,  light  than  darkness,  and  warmth  than 
cold.  Those,  for  instance,  who  had  a  distinct  sense 
of  temperature,  must  have  found  it  preferable  to 
float  in  the  warmer  places.  Well,  when  their 
descendants  came  to  have  added,  say,  a  sense  of 
taste,  they  could  have  a  good  time,  lying  where 
the  sun  falls  on  the  water,  and  feeling  the  mo- 
tion of  the  waves,  and  enjoying  their  food — the 
universe  was  revealed  to  them  to  a  degree  of  con- 
siderable significance.  But  how  infinitely  fuller 
became  the  life  of  the  creature  who  had  added  the 
sense  of  sight !  Think  of  his  greater  happiness, 
even  before  any  enjoyment  of  beauty  came,  in 
avoiding  danger  and  finding  food.  Of  course  at 
the  beginning  it  wasn't  sight  as  we  know  it,  but 
mere  recognition  of  light.  Then  it  probably  took 
thousands  of  generations  to  develop  any  notion  of 
color,  and  thousands  more  to  develop  discrimina- 
tion of  many  colors." 

"But,"  she  interrupted,  "how  do  you  know  all 
these  things  about  the  creatures  that  came  before 
man  ?" 

"  Why,  we  not  only  find  fossil  remains  in  succes- 
sive layers  of  the  earth,  that  indicate  the  progress; 
but  we  see  much  of  it  going  on  now.  We  still 
have  almost  all  grades  of  animals  with  us.  And  just 
as  the  astronomer  calculates  from  the  eclipses  we 
know,  that  certain  reported  ancient  obscurations  of 
the  sun  and  moon  were  also  eclipses,  so  the  biolo- 
gists know  ancient  processes  from  contemporary 


The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural.          27 

ones.  This  is  a  very  different  thing,  mind  you, 
from  accepting  gratuitous  statements — like  those 
credited  to  Moses,  for  instance — which  contradict 
known  facts." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  that,"  she  said,  "  and  now  let's 
go  back  to  grandpa." 

"  So  you  acknowledge  your  poor  relations  to-day, 
do  you  ?  Well,  after  some  of  your  very-very- 
great-grandpas  had  got  pretty  susceptible  to  light, 
some  of  your  grandpas  not  quite  so  great,  must 
have  got  susceptible  to,  say,  the  difference  between 
red  light  and  white  light,  and  to  the  difference 
between  red  light  and  blue  light,  and  gradually  to 
other  differences  of  color.  Else,  where  didjw/  get 
your  capacity  to  recognize  such  differences  ?  These 
susceptibilities  must  have  been  developed  pretty 
late,  because  we  find  many  human  beings,  and  in- 
telligent ones  too,  in  whom  they  are  not  developed 
yet-:  you  know  some  color-blind  people.  Now  to 
some  rays,  we  are  all  color-blind,  for  the  prism 
gives  us  some  that  nobody's  eyes  are  yet  far 
enough  evolved  to  be  susceptible  to:  we  know  them 
only  because  they  have  certain  chemical  powers, 
some  of  them  of  use  in  photography,  I  believe.  So, 
many  rays  that  we  see,  could  not  have  been  seen 
by  our  humble  ancestors;  and  therefore  (Here 
comes  the  great  point)  it  is  fair  to  presume  that 
the  rays  not  seen  by  us,  must  be  visible  to  our 
posterity.  Now  think  what  the  grand  sights  open 
to  them  will  be  !  Only  we  can't  think  much  more 
definitely  about  those  sights,  than  we  can  about 
the  rest  of  the  Infinity  yet  unrevealed.  As  with 
sights,  so  with  tones.  Our  ancestors  who  first  heard 


28  The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural. 

noises,  of  course  developed,  generation  after  gen* 
eration,  a  capacity  to  recognize  differences  between 
noises  as  well  as  sights.  One  of  the  proofs  that 
this  capacity  has  been  so  evolved,  is  that  we  find 
it  now,  like  susceptibility  to  shades  of  light,  in  very 
various  degrees  of  development.  There  are  plenty 
of  people  who  hear  well,  and  yet  cannot  distinguish 
between  two  tones  differing  by  fifty  vibrations  a 
second;  while  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  some 
musicians  who  will  recognize  a  difference  of  half 
a  dozen  vibrations,  and  I  think  less.  Moreover, 
just  as  the  color-scale  contains  shades  beyond 
any  existing  eyes,  so  the  sound-scale  contains 
tones  beyond  any  existing  ears.  Average  people 
recognize  notes  four  or  five  octaves  above  the 
treble  clef;  musicians  recognize  them  an  octave 
or  so  higher  still;  but  soon  there  comes  a  point 
where  vibrations  are  too  rapid  for  any  human 
ear  yet  evolved  to  hear.  Some  naturalists  have 
suspected  that  some  insects  communicate  by  notes 
•too  high  for  the  human  ear,  and  whales  by  notes 
too  low.  I  suspect  that's  all  rather  mythical, 
though,  especially  the  whales,  for  when  vibrations 
get  too  slow  to  be  recognized  as  tones,  they  are 
perfectly  audible  as  separate  beats.  But  aside 
from  single  tones,  take  the  'overtones,'  whose 
abundance  in  some  instruments  makes  those  in- 
struments so  much  more  beautiful  than  others: 
some  people  are  conscious  of  many  more  than 
other  people  are — actually  hear  things  in  the  pres- 
ent music,  that  other  people  can't.  How  will  it  be 
then  with  the  real 'music  of  the  future'?  Try 
again  now  from  this  point  of  view,  what  you  tried 


The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural.          29 

from  another  this  morning — to  imagine  the  possi- 
ble revelations  of  sound." 

"Oh,  it's  too  much — it's  too  much  !"  exclaimed 
Nina.  "  Inexpressibly  grand,  but  inexpressibly 
bewildering.  It  makes  my  head  whirl." 

Had  Mr.  Calmire  attempted  his  argument  a 
dozen  years  later,  he  could  have  given  it  new  depth 
and  beauty  from  the  discoveries  that  the  waves  of 
which  we  recognize  a  few  as  light,  really  include 
not  only  those  of  the  spectrum  Calmire  knew,  but 
are  already  shown  to  extend  into  a  spectrum  ascer- 
tainable  only  by  other  means  than  direct  sight,  and 
infinitely  larger  than  he  had  any  idea  of — some  of  its 
waves  presumably  long  enough  to  reach  beyond  our 
universe  and  all  our  conceptions,  while  others  are  so 
minute  as  to  be  equally  beyond  our  faculties.  And 
it  is  but  a  little  fragment  of  this  graduated  infinity, 
that  our  senses  can  grasp,  as  light.  The  capacities 
of  our  early  predecessors  could  respond  only  to  frag- 
ments vastly  less,  and  we  can  assign  no  limits  to  what 
may  be  appreciated  by  our  successors.  It  is  sus- 

pectedthatlightand  heatare  otherwaves  in  the  same 
boundless  series,  and  also  that  what  is  now  found  re- 
garding that  series  of  waves,  seems  true  of  another 
series,  among  which  we  apprehend  a  few  as  sound. 

But  Calmire,  not  anticipating  these  discoveries, 
and  so  makingNina's  head  whirl  more, answered  her: 

"  Let's  stop:  if  you're  tired, you  can'ttake  in  more." 

"Yes,  I  can.  And  besides,  you've  given  your 
poor  creatures  about  all  the  usual  senses  already." 

"And  your  word  'usual'  anticipates  my  object 
in  doing  it.  Why  shouldn't  there  be  more  than 
the  '  usual '  senses?" 


30          The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural. 

"  Why,  I  never  heard  of  any." 

"  Neither  did  the  creature  with  but  one.  Yet  even 
now,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  the  societies  for  Psychi- 
cal Research  may  be  on  the  track  of  one  new  to  us." 

"  Are  you  joking  ?" 

"  Not  altogether.  Some  people  really  seem 
to  get  knowledge  from  other  people's  minds  in 
ways  different  from  those  already  well  known — by 
a  sense  of  intellectual  touch,  as  it  were,  just  as  the 
first  creatures  with  a  sense  of  physical  touch,  got 
knowledge  in  ways  not  known  to  their  predecessors. 
But  our  own  contemporaries  who  are  advanced  in 
this  respect,  hardly  seem  to  get  any  new  knowl- 
edge, however, — any  that  they  do  not  appear  to 
read  from  the  mind  of  somebody  else.  Yet  that 
much  would  show  a  new  sense." 

"  Tell  me  more  about  it  !"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  Well,  there  isn't  very  much  to  tell  yet.  You 
know  how  a  suggestion  will  make  a  sleeper  dream?" 

"Yes,  I've  heard  how  the  clash  of  shovel  and 
tongs  makes  one  dream  great  battles;  and  turning 
on  the  gas,  makes  dreams  of  great  conflagrations." 

"  Well,"  continued  Calrnire,  "  there's  an  artificial 
sleep,  or  rather  state  of  waking  dreaminess,  called 
hypnotism,  into  which  some  people  can  readily  be 
thrown,  and  in  which  they  will  dream  and  feel 
and  do  anything  suggested  by  the  person  who  puts 
them  into  that  state." 

"  Why,  isn't  that  something  like  mesmerism  ?" 
asked  Nina. 

"  Certainly.  It's  the  modern  name  for,  apparently, 
the  same  thing.  Well,  the  influence  of  the  hypno- 
tizer — or  the  mesmerizer  if  you  will,  appears  to  be 


The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural.          3 1 

communicated  sometimes  by  mere  will,  without 
words,  and  even  at  a  distance.  People  vary  very 
much  in  their  susceptibility  to  such  hypnotic  com- 
munications: some  seem  so  sensitive  that  they  ap- 
parently get  impressions  from  other  minds  with- 
out any  conscious  effort  on  either  side.  I've  had 
persons  get  from  my  mind,  very  strange  things  that 
they  could  not  have  known  in  any  other  way  that  I 
can  think  of,  and  they  have  been  able  to  get  still 
farther  impressions  by  both  sides  concentrating 
attention  on  the  subject." 

"Such  as  what?"  interrupted  Nina. 
"  Oh,  impressions  of  facts  in  my  history,  names 
of  those  d-ar  to  me,  and  many  things  that  I  may 
tell  you  sometime.  But  now  you  see  that  */  this 
susceptibility  to  such  impressions  is  normal,  it  is 
going  to  become  more  general  and  more  intense, 
as  delicacy  of  physical  touch  has,  and  develop  into 
a  distinct  new  sense.  And,"  he  continued,  laugh- 
ing, "  as  aptitudes  tend  to  concentrate  themselves 
in  the  nerves  best  adapted  for  them— to  locate 
some  of  the  senses  in  special  organs,  we  may  yet 
have  an  organ  to  read  each  other's  minds  with, 
as  we  now  have  organs  to  read  each  other's  faces 
and  voices." 

"  But  how  ugly  we'd  be  with  a  new  organ!"  ex- 
claimed Nina. 

"  You're  expressing  the  jelly-fish's  opinion  of  a 
creature  with  eyes,  aren't  you?"  said  Calmire. 

"Great  Heavens!"  Nina  ejaculated.  "  How  nar- 
row all  our  every-day  notions  are!  But  if  we 
can  read  each  other's  minds,  we  can't  keep  our 
secrets,"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  moment,  becoming 


3  2  The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural. 

again  conscious  of  one  that  was  burdening  her 
very  heavily. 

"I  cLn't  know  about  that,"  Calmire  answered. 
"  It  looks  as  if  nothing  can  be  read  against  its  think- 
er's will.  But  it's  all  very  uncertain  yet." 

"Well,  it's  wonderful  anyhow,  even  as  far  as  it's 
got !"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Calmire,  "  that  it's  half 
as  wonderful  as  any  one  of  the  senses  that  we 
already  have,  would  appear  to  a  man  lacking  it,  if 
he  were  suddenly  put  in  possession  of  it.  Try  and 
think  a  moment  of  such  'revelations'  as  you 
had  this  morning,  coming  to  a  person  to  whom  they 
would  be  new." 

"That's  true,  all  true!"  exclaimed  Nina.  "It 
brings  up  again  the  stories  of  people  blind  from 
birth  being  suddenly  cured." 

"Now  go  back,"  said  Calmire,  "and  tell  me  if 
you,  with  your  five  or  seven  senses  (for  you 
realize  that  some  of  our  senses  are  still  in  such  a 
vague  state  of  development  that  people  don't  even 
agree  how  many  we  have),  wouldn't  be  almost  as 
foolish  to  deny  the  possibility  of  more,  as  would 
the  creature  with  only  one  ?" 

"  Why,  yes  !     I  never  thought  of  that  before  !" 

"  Really?"  said  Calmire,  with  a  quizzical  laugh, 
and  then  continued:  "Now  here,  my  child,  to 
sum  it  all  up,  is  what  I  want  you  to  think  about 
some  more  and  often: — the  first  beings  were  ab- 
solutely vacant  of  knowledge.  To  them  and  to 
their  descendants,  the  Infinite  has  been  reveal- 
ing itself  little  by  little,  through  countless  genera- 
tions, until  it  has  made  possible  such  revelations 


The  Natural  and  the  Supernatural.          33 

as  you  had  this  morning.  The  sum  of  these  revela- 
tions, is  what  we  call  the  natural  world — this  vast 
assemblage  of  woods  and  hills  and  seas  and  stars 
and  deep  vault  of  heaven,  and  the  busy,  thinking 
and  enjoying  creatures,  and,  through  all,  despite 
some  drawbacks,  Order  and  beneficent  Law.  All 
this  has  slowly  been  revealed  through  the  senses 
we  have.  But,  and  here  is  the  point  of  it  all, 
we  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  In- 
finite which  we  touch  on  all  our  sides  with  our  im- 
perfect senses,  could  go  on  revealing,  to  finer  senses, 
unlimited  new  truth,  beauty,  orderliness,  happiness. 
What  we  know,  must  be  as  nothing  to  the  great 
beyond  that  we  do  not  know.  We  are  getting  hints 
of  it  all  the  while  which  we  cannot  clearly  compre- 
hend. To  one  it  suggests  itself  in  a  strain  of 
music;  to  another,  in  some  dear  face — to  one,  in 
the  majesty  of  mountains;  to  another,  in  the  mys- 
tery of  wooded  vales — the  hunter  feels  it  beyond  the 
misty  morning;  the  poet,  beyond  the  sunset — in 
some  way,  at  some  time,  most  highly  organized 
beings  have  felt  that  ineffable  thrill." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Nina,  "  I  have  felt  it!  I  know  it!  I 
know  it!" 

"Now,"  said  Calmire,  "that  Infinite  Beyond — 
surrounding  on  every  side  the  Nature  that  we 
know,  is  the  real  .SV//Vr-natural.  But  it  is  unknown, 
and,  except  as  we  gain  little  by  little  from  it 
through  experience  and  study,  it  must,  so  far  as 
we  can  judge,  remain  unknown.  Myriads  of  men 
have  professed  to  tell  of  it,  but  everybody  believes 
that  all  but  his  own  chosen  few,  drew  wholly  on 
fancy.  This  of  course  goes  to  indicate  that  all 


drew  on  fancy.  But  though  we  know  nothing 
of  that  all-pervading  supernatural,  faith  in  it  is 
one  of  the  fundamental  conditions  of  right  think- 
ing. All  this  may  mean  but  little  to  you  now. 
But  it  will  come  to  mean  more." 

"  It  seems  to  mean  already,  Mr.  Calmire,  that  you 
have  proved  to  me  what  I  have  before  supposed 
we  had  to  take  wholly  on  faith — the  existence  of 
the  spiritual  world." 

"Of  course!  Oh,  it's  a  delight  to  teach  you!" 
exclaimed  Calmire.  "  Yes,  some  anthropomorphic 
'spirit'  has  always  been  supposed  to  be  behind 
every  manifestation  of  that  unknown  Infinity 
which  people  couldn't  understand.  You  know 
that  even  now,  the  hypnotism  I  was  telling  you 
about  a  minute  ago,  is  called  'spiritualism,'  and 
the  spiritualists  call  their  hypnotic  visions  '  reve- 
lations.' And  quite  lately,  electricity  was  attrib- 
uted to  spirits,  just  as  savages  have  always  attrib- 
uted wind  and  rain  to  them.  But  as  soon  as  such 
specimens  of  'spiritualism'  get  sifted  from  the 
false  notions  they  necessarily  start  with,  and  from 
the  humbug  that  the  designing  always  promote 
with  them,  all  notion  of  'spirits'  in  connection 
with  them  is  abandoned,  and  what  is  left  takes 
its  natural  place  in  the  body  of  knowledge.  Yet 
such  knowledge  has  always  come  to  us  from  that 
mysterious  Infinity  on  whose  surface  we  live,  and 
which  has  had  almost  universal  recognition  in 
some  such  phrase  as  'the  spirit-world.'  Now 
don't  think  of  this  any  more  before  you  go  to 
sleep,  but  think  it  over  hard  when  you  wake. 
Good-night,"  and  he  kissed  her  forehead. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

AN     OUTSIDE     ARGUMENT. 

THE  efficacy  of  teaching  often  depends  as  much 
upon  personal  relations  as  upon  doctrine;  and  at 
this  stage  of  Calmire's  expositions,  a  circumstance 
occurred  that  greatly  increased  Nina's  suscepti- 
bility to  his  influence. 

The  next  afternoon,  he  proposed  to  take  her 
riding,  but  she  was  languid  because  of  the  heavy 
feelings  and  unaccustomed  thoughts  of  the  preced- 
ing few  days,  and  so  a  compromise  was  effected. 
Calmire  put  the  ladies  in  a  victoria,  and  started 
out  beside  them  on  Malzour. 

I  don't  know  much  about  a  horse,  but  that  one 
was  like  some  other  rare  beings — no  education  was 
required  to  appreciate  him. 

His  sire  was  an  Arab  who  had  been  given  to 
Calmire  by  some  oriental  diplomatic  friend,  and 
the  name  had  been  "kept  in  the  family."  His 
dam  was  a  great  three-quarter-bred  Kentucky 
mare.  He  was  big  and  black,  and  seemed  to  have 
a  sunshine  of  his  own.  He  was  as  proud  and  fiery 
and  gentle  and  reliable  as  his  master.  He  liked 
to  have  children  pat  him  :  yet  he  was  as  am- 
bitious as  Bucephalus,  or  as  Alexander's  self;  but 
while  he  was  always  ready  to  do  all  a  horse  can, 
he  was  always  content  to  do  only  what  his  master 
wanted.  The  front  of  his  head  was  straight  and  gen- 
erally upright;  his  nostrils  were  open  and  red;  his 

35 


36  An  Outside  Argument. 

little  ears  most  always  pointed  forward;  his  long 
neck,  though  generally  arched,  was  not  like  a  swan's, 
for  a  swan's  is  sometimes  ugly;  his  breast  was  so 
broad,  his  chest  so  deep,  his  forearm  and  quarter 
so  powerful,  and  his  back  so  straight  and  short  and 
firm  that  it  would  have  seemed  a  waste  for  him  to 
bear  a  weight  less  kingly  than  Calmire's;  where 
the  bones  were  indicated  through  his  shining  skin, 
his  legs  seemed  slight,  but  that  was  only  in  contrast 
with  the  great  muscles  above;  his  pasterns  were 
rather  long,  that  is  why  he  and  Calmire  seemed  to 
move  on  as  if  the  horse  were  a  thing  of  springs  or 
waves,  rather  than  one  of  unyielding  bones  with 
joints  ;  his  feet  were  round  and  firm  and  pointed 
straight  forward,  but  they  were  not  small;  his  tail, 
on  top,  was  a  continuation  of  the  nearly  straight 
line  of  his  back,  until  it  gradually  drooped  into 
the  rich  flowing  curves  of  the  hair,  and  when  he 
was  going  fast,  it  was  almost  the  only  horse-tail  I 
ever  saw  that  it  did  not  disgust  me  to  have  com- 
pared to  the  train  of  a  meteor. 

Among  the  various  high  questions  which,  at  quiet 
hours,  had  claimed  the  discourse  of  Calmire  and 
Muriel,  the  cutting  of  that  horse's  tail  had  held  a 
prominent  place.  Muriel  had  seen  so  few  revolu- 
tions of  fashion,  and  had  got  such  a  one-sided  grip 
of  the  truth  that,  to  us,  the  beautiful  is  largely  the 
conventional,  that  he  urged  the  conforming  of 
Malzour's  tail  to  the  prevailing  mode.  But  Cal- 
mire had  got  hold  of  the  truth  that  as  we  leave 
the  artificially-enfolded  human  figure  and  go 
through  the  brutes  out  toward  inanimate  nature, 
our  respect  for  convention  decreases.  This  he 


An  Outside  Argument.  37 

illustrated  with  such  facts  as  that  only  in  the  most 
degraded  times,  such  as  those  of  the  Ancien  Regime, 
have  many  trees  been  trimmed  into  noticeably  arti- 
ficial shape,  and  that  it  took  as  colossal  a  fool  as 
Xerxes tothinkof  carvingamountain  intoaform  not 
its  own.  Calmire's  principle  being  established  by 
this  induction,  he  proceeded  to  apply  it  by  saying 
that  much  as  he  enjoyed  contributing  to  the  content 
of  so  artificial  a  creature  as  Mr.  Muriel  Calmire,  most 
of  whose  person  must  necessarily  be  covered  by 
art, — willing  as  he  was,  therefore,  to  enjoy  that  gen- 
tleman's countenance  despoiled,  as  it  was,  by  the 
razor,  he  would  not  inflict  on  Malzour,  whose  privi- 
lege it  was  to  go  as  Nature  made  him,  the  artificial 
incongruity  of  banging  his  tail. 

Well,  the  grand  horse  certainly  justified  his  mas- 
ter's principles,  as  he  was  led  up  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Wahring  and  Nina.  And  as  Calmire  mounted  him 
as  lightly  as  Muriel  would  have  done,  and  rode  off 
with  them,  Nina  exclaimed  to  her  mother,  much 
to  the  latter  lady's  delight: 

"  There  go  two  noble  creatures  !" 

Malzour  knew  that  Calmire  would  not  let  him 
out  for  the  first  half  mile,  and  danced  along  con- 
tentedly enough  until,  when  they  got  upon  the 
main  road  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  by  sundry  un- 
easinesses he  called  to  himself  the  attention  of 
his  master. 

Calmire  said  to  the  ladies,  "  Excuse  my  running 
away  a  few  minutes  to  calm  Malzour  down,"  and 
then  said  to  the  horse : 

"All  right,  old  boy,"  and  with  an  unconscious 
pressure  of  the  leg,  he  brought  the  horse's  croup 


38  An  Outside  Argument. 

toward  the  middle  of  the  road  and  let  him  go 
over  to  the  turf  by  the  side.  There  he  pressed 
him  with  the  other  leg,  for  if  he  had  not,  the 
horse  would  probably  have  gone  to  the  fence  and 
over  it,  supposing  that  was  what  Calmire  wanted. 
He  always  did,  as  nearly  as  he  understood  it,  what 
Calmire  wanted;  but  he  also  occasionally  had  a  de- 
sire of  his  own,  as  he  had  respectfully  intimated 
before  Calmire  took  him  off  the  road.  When  he 
felt  the  second  pressure,  he  brought  himself  around 
again  parallel  with  the  road,  and  Calmire  pressed 
him  with  both  legs  and  lightly  touched  the  curb, 
when  the  graceful  mass  started  off  in  a  canter 
lighter  than  Vergil's  verses. 

It  soon  got  to  be  a  tearing  pace,  and  after  they 
had  had  a  mile  or  two  of  it,  including  two  or  three 
very  pretty  jumps  over  ditches  beside  the  culverts 
and  an  occasional  detour  where  the  roadside  was 
impracticable,  Calmire  said  :  "  We're  not  in  a  hurry 
this  afternoon,"  and  gently  drew  him  in  and  saun- 
tered back  to  meet  the  ladies. 

After  walking  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  (for  Mai 
zour  was  one  of  those  rare  horses  who,  though 
they  pick  up  their  feet  with  the  spring  of  a  good 
pianist's  wrists,  nevertheless  will  walk),  Calmire 
saw  the  victoria  with  the  two  ladies  approaching, 
and  set  forward  at  a  slow  trot  to  meet  it. 

He  turned  and  was  at  Mrs.  Wahring's  side  of  the 
carriage,  and,  by  a  touch  of  the  curb,  moderated 
Malzour's  desire  to  trot  with  the  other  horses,  into 
a  gentle  canter  which  grouped  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  Malzour's  beautiful  possibilities,  and  would 
have  made  the  veriest  tvro  in  the  saddle  look  a 


An  Outside  Argument.  39 

thing  of  grace.  What  Calmire  looked,  Nina  never 
forgot.  Yet  strange  to  say,  always  in  recalling 
horse  and  man  and  that  afternoon,  she  was  more 
apt  to  imagine  Muriel  in  the  saddle  than  Calmire. 

Suddenly  the  off  horse  in  the  victoria,  on  Cal- 
mire's  side,  made  a  plunge. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Calmire  to  the  driver. 

"  The  young  horse  is  a  little  fresh,  Mr.  Calmire, 
sir.  If  you'd  just  please  go  on  the  other  side  !" 

In  a  minute,  one  rein  (which,  it  was  discovered 
later,  the  coachman's  monkey  of  a  boy  had  been 
stropping  his  father's  razor  on)  snapped,  and  the 
bits  of  both  horses  were  held  on  but  one  side.  The 
colt,  who  would  have  been  safe  enough  if  the  har- 
ness was,  proceeded  to  do  what  he  could  towards 
running  away,  and  there  were  not  fit  means  to  pre- 
vent his  steadier  companion  from  going  with  him. 

"  Don't  be  uneasy!"  said  Calmire  to  the  ladies, 
"  I'll  take  care  of  it." 

But  Mrs.  Wahring,  though  she  could  endure 
anything  for  which  she  was  prepared,  was  not  a 
woman  for  quiet  counsels  in  emergencies.  She 
began  to  scream  and  to  show  decided  symptoms 
of  intending  to  jump  out  of  the  carriage.  Her 
screams  frightened  the  horses  more. 

"  Sit  still,  I  tell  you  !"  thundered  Calmire,  with  a 
voice  and  look  that  Nina. thought  were  the  finest 
things  she  had  seen  in  him  that  day. 

The  poor  lady,  astonished  and  cowed,  shrunk 
back  to  her  seat  and  quietly  awaited  death.  Nina 
felt  rigid,  but  her  anticipations  stopped  in  depend- 
ence on  the  big  black  horse  and  his  rider. 

In  two   seconds  Calmire  was  around    the   car- 


4°  An  Outside  Argument. 

riage  again,  with  his  left  hand  on  the  wild  young 
creature's  rein  at  the  bit,  and  his  right  restrain- 
ing Malzour,  so  that  at  times  the  faithful  fel- 
low's hoofs  were  plowing  ridges  in  the  road  as 
the  two  carriage-horses,  for  both  were  now  run- 
ning away,  fairly  dragged  him  with  them.  Malzour 
was  literally  being  dragged  by  Calmire's  arm.  No 
human  frame  could  stand  it  long.  The  speed  was 
checked  a  little,  but  Calmire  felt  that  a  few  more 
seconds  would  finish  him.  They  were  at  the  foot 
of  a  gentle  hill,  and  Calmire  saw  with  joy  that  near 
the  summit  the  rpad  had  been  cut  into  the  side  of 
the  hill,  leaving  a  bank  on  the  left.  But  the  left 
rein  was  broken.  It  could  not  turn  them  in.  He 
pondered  a  second,  then  his  face  suddenly  fell  into 
hard  lines  and  turned  deadly  pale.  He  called  to  the 
man: 

"Drop  the  rein,  leave  it  to  me." 

Then  a  glow  that  seemed  almost  to  contain  a 
smile,  spread  over  his  face,  as  he  released  the  fright- 
ened horse's  bit,  put  spurs  to  Malzour  and  went  up 
the  hill  at  a  speed  compared  with  which  the  run- 
aways were  slow.  At  the  summit,  he  stopped  a 
little  toward  the  right  side  of  the  road  and  turned 
Malzour  square  across,  facing  the  bank.  The  horse 
arched  his  graceful  neck.  Calmire,  with  such  a 
face  as  great  inspirations  bring,  leaned  over,  pat- 
ting him,  and  said:  "  Steady,  old  fellow,  and  good- 
bye, if  we  must."  And  then  he  waited.  His  most 
definite  thought  was:  "  I  hope  it  won't  be  maiming! 
Death  has  got  to  come  sometime,  and  I  suspect  it's 
pretty  much  of  a  humbug  anyhow." 

It  was  not  long  as  his  watch  would  have  counted 


An  Outside  Argument.  41 

it,  but  long  enough  as  his  crowding  memories  did, 
while  the  mad  destruction  rushed  towards  him. 
When  it  was  within  a  few  paces,  he  waved  his  hat. 
The  horses  veered  to  the  left.  He  plunged  right 
against  them.  In  three  bounds,  all  three  horses 
were  down  against  the  bank. 

"  Jump,  and  take  their  heads,"  called  Calmire  to 
the  coachman,  and  by  the  time  the  man  had  the 
near  horse  by  the  bit,  Malzour,  from  whom  Calmire 
had  sprung  as  they  touched  the  bank,  was  stand- 
ing safe  by  the  roadside,  and  his  master  was  at  the 
head  of  the  off  horse. 

Calmire's  leg  was  a  little  bruised  by  the  tug-irons, 
where  he  had  struck  the  horse  when  he  rushed 
against  them.  No  other  living  thing  was  scratched. 

He  had  probably  saved  the  ladies'  lives,  and  at 
the  imminent  peril  of  his  own,  and  Mrs.  Wahring's 
quick  mind  did  not,  on  the  whole,  regret  the  risk. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

THE     ESSENTIAL     RELIGION. 

NATURALLY  the  ladies  went  to  bed  early  that 
evening,  but  the  next  morning  after  breakfast, 
Nina  came  to  Calmire  on  the  piazza  with  a  weary 
smile,  and  said  : 

"  Night  before  last,  and  even  yesterday,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  really  felt  toward  that  Infinity  which 
you  have  shown  me  to  be  behind  all  things,  some- 
thing that  might  take  the  place  of  my  old  feeling 
toward  God  ;  but  when  I  awoke  this  morning,  I 
had  no  more  feeling  regarding  it  than  if  I  were 
dead.  It's  a  very  ungrateful  recognition,"  she 
added  with  a  charming  mixture  of  banter  and 
earnestness>  "for  your  risks  in  preventing  my 
being  really  dead,  as  well  as  for  your  trouble  in 
teaching  me." 

Calmire  gave  a  cheerful  little  laugh,  and  said  : 

"  Of  course  you  don't  find  your  feelings  on 
philosophical  truths  very  brisk  this  morning.  Such 
a  little  stir-up  as  we  had  yesterday  afternoon 
is  apt  to  divert  currents  of  emotion,  and  your 
current  of  that  class  of  emotions  hadn't  been  run- 
ning long  enough  to  wear  a  very  deep  channel, 
anyhow.  But  even  in  the  old  times,  if  you 
had  questioned  your  '  love  of  God,'  or  your  love 
of  your  mother,  or  of  any  one  else,  you  would 

42 


The  Essential  Religion.  43 

have  found  many  a  morning  when  you  did  not 
absolutely  thrill  with  it,  especially  if  you  had  been 
very  tired  the  night  before.  Don't  let  such  a  per- 
fectly natural  circumstance  disturb  your  new  faith, 
and  don't  keep  pulling  the  faith  up  by  the  roots  to 
see  if  it's  well  started." 

"Well,"  said  Nina,  "certainly  a  new  horizon  has 
opened  to  me,  but  faint  and  vague.  My  view  is 
full  of  uncertainties  and  perplexities." 

"That's  entirely  natural,"  Calmire  responded. 
"  To  have  its  full  effect,  the  subject  must  color  every 
fibre  of  your  intellectual  being,  but  it  has  hardly 
had  time  yet  to  get  below  the  surface  ;  and  it  is 
too  tremendous  to  be  assimilated  all  at  once,  any- 
how. The  significance  of  these  commonplaces  of 
modern  philosophy  that  I'm  trying  to  teach  you 
— the  bearing  of  the  scientific  facts  on  the  moral 
principles,  never  is  found  as  obvious  at  first  as 
later  ;  and  perhaps  the  added  light  will  not  come 
as  often  when  you  seek  it  from  deliberate  thought, 
as  in  odd  moments  by  side-flashes  from  every-day 
experience.  It's  going  to  take  a  good  while,  too, 
for  you  to  truly  realize  one  point  which  is  easy 
enough  to  understand  without  realizing — that 
one's  religion  is  simply  what  one  thinks  and  feels 
regarding  the  motive  Power  of  the  universe  ;  yet 
one  must  realize  that  fact  before  getting  the  rela- 
tion to  the  Infinite  which  transcends  all  relation 
to  an  unseen  personality." 

"  It  has  seemed  to  me  very  strange,"  she  said, 
"  that  the  facts  relating  to  the  very  beginnings  of 
life  which  you  have  been  telling  me,  should  have  a 
bearing  upon  our  relations  to  that  Infinity.  But  I 


44  The  Essential  Religion. 

see  that  they  do,  even  from  what  you  have  already 
told  me." 

"Unquestionably  they  do,"  he  said;  "and  the 
fact  seems  to  have  been  realized  almost  univer- 
sally. Every  religious  system  but  some  very  prim- 
itive ones,  deals  with  'the  very  beginnings  of  life,' 
in  some  cosmogony,  more  or  less  absurd.  A  re- 
ligion is  but  a  theory  of  life,  and  the  questions  of 
life  are  but  questions  of  our  relation  to  the  uni- 
verse (including  man,  of  course),  and  the  forces 
behind  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Calmire,  all  that  you  have  told  me 
about  was,  after  all,  mere  sensations,  not  the  high 
thoughts  and  feelings  where  religion  dwells.  I've 
always  been  taught  that  God  sent  us  those  direct- 
ly: or  that  the  devil  did,"  she  added  with  an  ex- 
pression which  proved  that  he  did  not  send  them 
to  her  often.  Then  she  continued  :  "  You  did  hint 
something  yesterday  about  intellectual  and  moral 
truths  coming  from  physical  ones,  but  of  course 
you  didn't  expect  me  to  understand  that." 

"Why,  that  isn't  hard  to  understand.  Most 
truths  which  you  call  intellectual  and  moral  are 
merely  statements  about  physical  matters,  and 
perhaps,  in  the  last  analysis,  all  are.  Take  a  few 
at  random — for  instance,  the  first  of  our  great 
4  glittering  generalities' — 'all  men  are  born  free 
and  equal.'  It  simply  means  that  no  physical  force 
should  be  used  to  seize  another  man's  material 
goods,  confine  or  injure  his  material  body,  or  hin- 
der his  freedom  of  speech — which  is  simply  to  hin- 
der his  using  material  type  or  vibrations  of  material 
air  to  affect  another  man's  material  eyes  or  ears  so 
as  to  influence  certain  material  motions  in  the 


The  Essential  Religion.  45> 

nerve-matter  of  that  other  man,  with  which 
(and  here  we  blend  into  the  immaterial  again) 
his  opinions  are  associated.  '  Do  as  you  would 
be  done  by,'  has  a  similar  set  of  implications. 
There's  no  hard  and  fast  line  between  the  intellec- 
tual and  the  moral  and  the  physical,  Nina,  any 
more  than  there  is  anywhere  else  in  Nature.  Why, 
even  what  you  call  '  matter '  is  simply  a  name  for  a 
lot  of  mental  impressions  of  size,  color — possible 
odor  and  taste,  and  of  that  resistance  to  press- 
ure, which  you  call  solidity.  But  an  electric 
shock  or  a  hypnotic  command  would  oppose  about 
the  same  resistance  to  muscular  pressure,  and  yet 
there's  nothing  which  you  call  'matter'  there." 

"  But  then  a  thing  is  a  thing,  Mr.  Calmire.  When 
I  see  a  thing,  it's  because  there's  something  there." 

"Yes,"  Calmire  answered,  "there  />' something 
there  ' — something  everywhere,  Something  Infinite 
and  Inexpressible,  causing  all  our  sensations:  and 
when  you  express  a  certain  set  of  them,  you  call 
that  set  matter.  You  call  another  set  lightning, 
but  the  lightning  is  not  what  you  mean  by  '  matter,' 
and  yet.  it  is  as  much  a  manifestation  of  that  same 
Something,  as  resistance  to  muscular  pressure  is." 

"Well,  there  seems  reason  in  what  you  say,  and 
yet  it's  so  queer.  I  can't  get  hold  of  it." 

"It  takes  time  and  frequent  turning  over,"  Cal- 
mire responded.  "  But  it  will  make  the  task  easier, 
perhaps,  to  give  you  a  notion  of  how  thoughts 
and  feelings  arose.  Or  are  you  getting  bored  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit!     Do  go  on,  please." 

"  Well,  I  can  only  do  it  very  roughly.  Our  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject  is  yet  very  new,  and  we've  only 
had  time  to  make  ourselves  a  mighty  poor  stock  of 


46  The  Essential  Religion. 

words  to  talk  about  it  with,  and  I  don't  want  to 
bother  you  with  the  big  ones.  And  at  best  it's  very 
hard  to  put  the  case  with  absolute  consistency  :  for 
when  we  talk  of  thought  and  feeling,  we  have  to  talk 
in  words  that  all  come  more  or  less  directly  from 
sensation,  because  thought  and  feeling  themselves 
came  from  sensation.  The  words  themselves  prove 
it — our  very  difficulties  prove  our  case — the  very 
word  '  feeling '  even  yet  remains  connected  with  the 
sensation  of  touch,  and  we  say  that  a  man  hasn't 
any  '  sense,'  when  we  mean  that  he  hasn't  anymind. 
Moreover  the  truth  that  thought  and  feeling  arose 
in  sensation,  differs  so  from  our  ordinary  impres- 
sions, that  it  takes  many  illustrations  and  much 
pondering  to  make  it  clear.  But,  though  all 

thoughts  and  feelings  start  from  sensations,  we 
regard  thought  and  feeling  as  advanced,  in  propor- 
tion as  they  have  advanced  away  from  sensations." 

"  Well,  I  can't  half  understand  it,"  persisted 
Nina.  "Do  you  mean  that  our  loftiest  emotions — 
love,  for  instance — are  built  up  from  mere  sense  ?" 

Calmire  burst  out  laughing.  "  Why,  my  dear 
child,  that  is  the  very  feeling  of  all  the  great  ones, 
whose  connection  with  sense  is  easiest  to  trace.  In 
the  vast  majority  of  mankind,  it  has  hardly  got 
beyond  sense  yet — and  a  single  sense  at  that : 
with  most  people  it's  mainly  an  affair  of  the  eye. 
With  a  few  rare  souls,  it  is  a  sympathy  in  great 
thoughts  and  great  feelings;  but  all  the  same,  those 
thoughts  and  feelings  had  their  seeds,  ages  ago 
generally,  in  sensations.  Take  something  vastly 
more  abstract  than  love — reverence.  What  started 
it  but  the  sense  of  grand  things  and  grand  pro- 


The  Essential  Religion.  47 

cesses — suns  and  skies  and  mountains  and  oceans 
and  storms  and  the  strength  and  beauty  of  living 
things  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Nina,  with  a  little  sigh,  "it  does 
seem  as  if  it  might  be  so,  after  all." 

"Then  let  me  try  to  show  you  a  little  of  how 
it's  so.  Let  us  go  to  our  humble  ancestors 
again — to  the  first  of  them  who  ever  felt  sensa- 
tion, and  look  for  a  notion  of  how  thought  starts. 
His  consciousness  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  we 
can't  account  for:  it's  beyond  us — with  God,  if 
you  want  to  put  it  so.  But  we're  up  to  some  of 
the  relations  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings  with  the 
outside  world  and  with  each  other.  Now  until 
that  fellow  felt  sensation,  there  was,  so  far  as  we 
are  concerned,  absolutely  no  thought,  no  knowl- 
edge. The  first  sensation,  whatever  it  was,  was 
knowledge — was  a  revelation  from  the  source  of 
all  our  knowledge — reaction  between  something  in 
us  and  the  Universe  outside.  It  may  have  been 
simply  knowledge  that  the  creature's  progress  in  a 
certain  direction  was  obstructed,  or  that  one  cur- 
rent of  water  was  warmer  than  another,  or  that 
one  place  was  darker  than  another." 

"You  speak  of  a  creature  floating  in  water. 
Were  all  the  earliest  creatures  marine?" 

"  Probably.  Most  of  the  primitive  forms  we 
now  have,  are.  That's  the  reason  the  biologists 
like  to  study  by  the  sea.  Now  suppose  one  of 

those  creatures  barely  capable  of  feeling  heat,  when 
he  floats  into  the  sunlight.  It  has  then  mere  sensa- 
tion— no  thought  about  it.  But  if  it  recognizes  that 
sensation  as  the  same  it  felt  yesterday,  that  put- 


48  The  Essential  Religion. 

ting  the  two  together, is  a  thought.  There's  some 
reason,  though  by  no  means  conclusive,  to  believe 
that  our  word  'thought'  started  from  a  root  that 
meant  to  put  things  together,  and  we  have  a  way 
now  of  saying  of  a  man  who  thinks  well:  '  He  can 
put  this  and  that  together.'  ' 

"Taking  one  consideration  with  another,"  sang 
Nina  lightly  from  "The  Pirates  of  Penzance,"  and 
then  flushed  at  having  been  so  unconscious  of  the 
sombre  undercurrent  of  her  thoughts. 

"That's  it  exactly!"  said  Calmire.  "Now  sup- 
pose our  very-great-grandfather  going  a  step  far- 
ther on.  Suppose  his  food  most  abounds,  as  it 
generally  does,  in  light  places.  After  getting  ac- 
customed to  find  it  in  such  places,  the  creature  has 
fitted  together  frequent  sensations  into  a  general 
thought  of  light.  (Of  course  the  beast  can't  think 
the  man's  thoughts,  but  he  must  have  some  pro- 
cesses like  those  of  a  man's  mind  when  it  is  hazy 
and  nearly  asleep:  I  suppose  you  won't  object  to 
its  being  a  thought  of  light,  because  he  doesn't  give 
that  word  to  it?)  But  to  continue:  Now  he  has  fitted 
together  certain  other  sensations  into  a  general 
thought  of  food.  Then  he  gradually  gets  a  farther 
step  and  fits  the  thought  of  light  to  the  thought  of 
food,  and  so  gets  a  thought  higher  than  either  of 
the  first  ones.  Suppose  one  of  his  descendants  far 
enough  evolved  to  be  capable  of  seeking  his  food 
instead  of  merely  absorbing  it  as  it  comes.  He 
must  get  into  the  way  of  going  about  after  it  in 
bright  spots.  But  fallen  leaves  and  branches  float 
about  in  the  water,  and  so  do  other  creatures  which 
prey  on  our  friend,  so  he  or  his  descendants  must 


The  Essential  Religion.  4Q 

in  time  get  to  distinguish  between  these  small  mov- 
ing shadows,  and  the  great  fixed  ones  of  banks  and 
rocks  and  trees." 

"  But  why  must  he  get  to  make  these  distinc- 
tions ?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Simply  because  he'll  get  eaten  up  if  he  doesn't." 

"  But,"  objected  Nina,  "  the  one  whose  senses 
are  evolved  first,  must  be  smart  enough  to  eat  up 
the  others." 

"It's  not  the  smartest  that  eats,  but  the  biggest; 
and  the  little  fellow  develops  smartness  in  getting 
away  from  him.  Man  is  not  descended  from  the 
biggest  creatures.  My  child,  do  you  know  that 
there  you  have  touched  the  fundamental  mystery 
of  our  moral  evolution?  Even  way  back  there 
and  way  down  there,  prevails  the  rule  that  danger 
and  suffering  and  cruel  necessity  develop  soul." 

Nina's  face  became  a  beautiful  study. 

"Well,"  continued  Calmire,  "look  at  it  again. 
Frequent  experiences  give  a  thought  of  light, 
frequent  experiences  give  a  thought  of  food, 
later  experiences  give  the  thoughts  that  where 
light  is,  food  is,  where  moving  shadow  is,  danger 
is  ;  light  is  salutary,  darkness  is  to  be  dreaded. 
A  jelly-fish  reaches  these  generalizations  after 
thousands  of  centuries  of  inherited  habit,  and 
children  display  them  early,  which  means  that 
the  generalizations  were  evolved  in  our  early  an- 
cestry. Expand  them  a  little  farther  with  experi- 
ences a  little  higher,  and  you  get  the  early  man's 
notion  of  a  good  god  of  light  and  an  evil  god 
of  darkness — all  built  up  by  obvious  sequences 
from  the  most  primitive  sensations.  The  proba- 


5O  The  Essential  Religion. 

bilities  are  tremendous  that  all  our  thoughts  and 
feelings  were  thus  built  up  from  sensation — that 
no  man  ever  knew  anything  that  he  or  his  ances- 
tors had  not  built  up  in  that  slow  way." 

"But  oh,  Mr.  Calmire!"  exclaimed  Nina, "this  is 
bringing  religion  itself  down  to  mere  sense!" 

"  Bringing  it  down,  my  dear  child  ?  If  I  tell 
you  that  a  flower  grows  from  earth,  and  is  limited 
by  the  kind  of  earth  it  grows  from,  do  I  bring  the 
flower  down  to  earth  ?" 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,  after  all.     Go  on,  please." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  on  until  I  get  you  to 
realize  a  little  better,  how  your  sympathy  with 
what  I  am  trying  to  explain,  is  obstructed  by 
prejudices  and  cant  phrases  of  prejudice,  which 
the  world  has  evolved  with  the  old  order  of 
beliefs.  You  objected  lately  to  the  law  of  evo- 
lution, on  grounds  of  family  pride;  and  now  you 
don't  want  matters  of  religion  made  matters  of 
sense;  and  so  on.  But  your  objections  are  all  be- 
side the  issue.  It  ought  not  to  be  a  question  of 
what  a  doctrine  interferes  with,  but  simply  a  ques- 
tion: '  Is  it  true  ?'  Unwelcome  truth  always  turns 
out  a  blessing  in  disguise.  But  you  have  had  too 
few  opportunities  to  realize  that.  When  you  have 
realized  it  oftener,  you  will  not  have  any  prefer- 
ences whatever  as  to  what  dress  truth  comes  in,  but 
simply  an  eagerness  for  truth  in  any  dress — just  as 
selfish  an  eagerness  as  for  any  other  thing  that  will 
add  to  your  happiness." 

"  I  do  hope  so,  but  it  seems  very  strange.  I  feel 
very  weak  and  desolate,  and  what  you  have  been 
saying  to  me  still  seems  a  kind  of  narrowing  down 


The  Essential  Religion.  "> r 

even  of  the  little  standing  ground  that  was  left  me 
I've  been  brought  up  to  despise  the  things  of  sense, 
and  here  you  want  to  convince  me  that  my  whole 
mind  and  soul  are  made  up  of  them." 

He  reached  over  and  gently  stroked  her  hand  as 
he  went  on: 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it!  They're  made  up  of  things  of 
consciousness,  which  originally  were  awakened  by 
things  of  sense.  As  we've  said  more  than  once 
before,  thought — emotion,  are  the  highest  thing  we 
know — at  the  summit  of  our  evolution.  Here  they 
are:  what  matters  it  how  they  got  here  ?  Patience  ! 
Patience  !  and  all  will  become  clearer.  I've  been 
'  narrowing  down '  a  good  many  of  your  old  concep- 
tions, it's  true.  That  was  sure  to  be  done  by  some- 
body— by  yourself  if  by  nobody  else.  But  I  hope 
I've  given  you  some  better  ones  in  the  place  of 
them.  I  want  to  get  you  out  of  that  sadly  mis- 
taken way  of  despising  anything  in  Nature.  Exalt- 
ing thought  at  the  expense  of  sense  is  all  a  mistake, 
and  is  primarily  responsible  for  the  horrors  of  as- 
ceticism. It  was  the  sort  of  fool  who  does  that,  that 
Luther  sang  of  in  '  Wein,  Weib,  und  Gesang.'  How 
splendidly  the  knowledge  of  to-day  confirms  his  in- 
spirations! Is  notsense  the  medium  whereby  the 
external  Infinity  communicates  with  the  internal 
one,  or  as  you  would  put  it,  whereby  God  in- 
forms Soul?  Is  not  sense,  then,  just  as  near  to 
God  at  one  end  as  it  is  to  you  at  the  other? 
Is  it  not  simply  our  senses  that  have  led  us  on 
a  little  way  into  that  mass  of  order  and  beauty 
to  which  we  cannot  assign  any  limits  ?" 

"  And  yet,"  said  Nina  after  a  little    reflection 


t;2  The  Essential  Religion. 

"  every-day  religion,  which  satisfies  most  people's 
needs,  is  not  made  up  from  study  of  Nature,  but 
from  the  inspirations  and  meditations  of  holy 
men." 

"  So  it  is,  my  child.  But  their  'inspirations  and 
meditations,'  so  far  as  good  for  anything,  result 
from  experience  of  Nature  (which  of  course  in- 
cludes human  life)  by  themselves  and  their  ances- 
tors. True,  they  tell  us  other  things,  but  of  doubt- 
ful value.  You  know  that  even  the  church  itself 
has  had  to  decide  what  to  accept  and  what  to  re- 
ject." 

"Well,  what  is  the  right  test?"  asked  Nina. 

"Simply  the  correspondence  of  what  men  say 
with  what  Nature  says.  Nature  is  the  only  source 
of  truth  :  of  course  I  mean  Nature  in  the  large 
sense — including  human  nature." 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it,  Mr.  Calmire.  Aren't  the 
minds  of  holy  men  springs  of  truth  ?': 

"Certainly;  but  just  as  all  springs  furnish 
water  which  has  fallen  from  elsewhere.  Nature 
pours  truth  upon  us  in  our  daily  experiences, 
and  as  we  study  her — in  woods  and  under  skies, 
in  laboratories  and  observatories,  before  organs 
and  orchestras,  in  minds  and  hearts  and  in  social 
organizations.  But  the  monk  in  his  cell,  the  hermit 
in  the  desert,  the  old-fashioned  German  dreamer 
in  his  closet,  have  seldom  studied  things  as  they 
are,  but  have  generally  imagined  absurdities  and 
chimeras;  and  their  vagaries,  fastened  on  to  more 
or  less  of  the  truth,  have  done  much  to  shape  the 
religions. 

"We  should  never  forget,"  he  continued,  "that 


The  Essential  Religion.  "5  3 

the  mind  of  man  is  irregular  and  fallible,  while 
Nature  is  unvarying  and  reliable — that  though  she 
initiates  and  sustains  man's  soul-force,  she  still 
leaves  him  enough  independence  to  run  counter 
to  the  laws  of  both  the  external  world  and  of  mind, 
and  so  to  make  his  opinions  proportionally  unsafe. 
So  as  soon  as  men  get  to  fancying  beyond  Nature's 
plain  revelations,  there  are  all  degrees  in  which  they 
speak  truly  and  falsely,  and  all  ways  in  which  even 
the  best  men  contradict  each  other.  Socrates  be- 
lieved that  the  immortality  of  the  soul  will  be  the 
solution  of  all  human  ills  :  Buddha  believed  the 
same  of  its  virtual  annihilation.  The  fact  is  that 
neither  of  them  either  knew  or  could  know  anything 
about  it,  Nature  being  absolutely  silent  on  the  point. 
Now  in  the  hosts  of  such  cases,  as  there  was  no 
possible  way  of  proving  either  side  right  or  wrong, 
the  original  method  of  avoiding  tedious  discussion 
was  for  one  disputant  to  roast  the  other.  That 
way  is  out  of  fashion  now,  however,  so  they  get 
together  and  have  a  little  amusement  that  they  call 
a  '  heresy  trial,'  where  both  sides  assert  a  lot  of 
things  that  neither  can  prove,  and  then  the  ma- 
jority decides  that  one  is  right,  or  sometimes  that 
both  are:  the  world  is  growing  so  amiable,  indeed, 
that  the  latter  way  is  becoming  quite  frequent." 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  you  don't  mean  that  all  'the 
work,  the  beauty,  the  poetry,  the  exaltation'  of 
the  church  has  been  the  fruit  of  error  ?" 

"  By  no  means  !  At  bottom  they  have  rested  on 
Nature's  own  truths;  but  I'm  afraid  a  good  deal  of 
error  has  been  the  fruit  of  the  poetry  and  exaltation. 
Like  all  great  forces,  they're  dangerous  things: 


54  The  Essential  Religion. 

they  often  substitute  false  emotion  for  true;  they 
often  draw  their  nourishment  from  men's  fancies 
rather  than  from  Nature  and  active  life.  All 
healthy  mental  stimulus,  not  only  as  it  comes 
to  us,  but  as  it  came  to  the  first  creature  that  re- 
acted with  the  outside  Universe,  originally  pro- 
ceeds from  without — from  Nature,  as  I  just  said 
(or  God  if  you  prefer  to  put  it  in  that  way),  or  from 
other  human  beings.  But  it  won't  do  to  mistake 
the  reactions  of  one's  own  mind  for  the  utterances 
of  God.  The  mind's  stimulation  of  itself  is  as 
dangerous  as  the  body's." 

"  But  all  the  body's  stimulants  come  from  out- 
side," Nina  objected. 

"  Not  all,"  he  answered;  "  but  that  subject  is  not 
pleasant,  we  can't  go  into  it,  and  you  couldn't  un- 
derstand it.  Just  bear  this  in  mind,  though  :  there 
are  but  two  sources  of  truth  open  to  us — the  out- 
side Universe,  and  minds  evolved  by  healthy  re- 
action with  it:  not  minds  'inspired'  by  their  own 
fancies." 

"  But,"  said  Nina,  "  somehow  this  doesn't  seem 
to  come  from  above — it  all  seems  so  awfully  me- 
chanical and  unspiritual." 

"That  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  spir- 
itual. It  comes,  as  everything  does,  from  the 
Mystery  under  all  our  knowledge,  which  the  other 
day  you  called  the  'spiritual  world.'  And  in 
that  sense,  it  must  be  absolutely  spiritual;  but  if 
you  mean  that  it  does  not  profess  to  deal  with 
that  awful  Mystery,  it  is  ^spiritual.  If,  though, 
you  mean  by  spirituality,  the  really  highest  range 
of  thought  and  feeling  which  that  Mystery  has  yet 


The  Essential  Religion.  55 

yielded  from  itself,  if  you  mean  the  great  emotions 
which  the  contemplation  of  mystery  generates,  if 
you  mean  the  '  sacred  thirst '  for  more  of  such 
experiences,  you  will  find  in  what  I  have  been  in- 
dicating, room  for  all  that — though  it  will  involve 
some  change  in  your  tastes.  But  you  still  have 
everything  man  ever  really  knew,and  every  reason- 
able longing  he  ever  felt — from  that  coming  sun- 
set, back  through  all  the  beautiful  truths  painted 
or  carved  or  in  any  other  way  recorded." 

"  But,"  she  insisted,  "  there  are  those  truths  that 
we  can't  paint  or  record." 

"  Yes,  dear,  an  infinity  of  them !  But  until  we  can 
paint  or  record  them,  it  won't  do  to  claim  that  we 
have  them.  If  those  we  haven't  got,  are  what  you 
mean  by  spiritual  truths,  why,  so  far  as  our  minds 
are  concerned,  there  are  none.  Yet  don't  let  us  for 
a  moment  forget  that  in  another  sense  all  truth  is 
spiritual:  in  a  unified  Universe,  truth  is  necessarily 
one— the  revealed  as  much  as  the  unrevealed." 

"  But  what  does  it  all  mean  when  we  speak  about 
so  many  of  the  best  men  having  devoted  them- 
selves to  finding  and  teaching  spiritual  truth  ? 
I  don't  mean  men  engaged  with  bugs  and  stones 
and  such  things  that  we  talked  about  once,"  and 
she  suddenly  turned  pale,  "  but  the  men  we  speak 
of  as  '  spiritually-minded.'  What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"It  means  a  great  many  things — everything  be- 
tween the  wonderful  moral  insight  of  Christ. a-nd 
the  arrant  nonsense  talked  in  Alexandria  in  Hy- 
patia's  time." 

"  But  there  you  go  again,  Mr.  Calmire:  'insight,' 
into  what?" 


5 6  The  Essential  Religion. 

"Into  this  marvelous  mass  of  experiences  and 
reactions  between  them,  which  we  call  the  human 
soul." 

"  Well,  isn't  soul,  spirit  ?     Isn't  that  spiritual  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  sense  I  think  you're  struggling  over 
now :  you  want  something  beyond  the  human 
'spirit' — something  of  those  outside  spirits  that 
the  savages  think  of.  We  can  only  know  the  hu- 
man spirit,  and  it  may  be  made  a  very  ennobling 
study.  But  even  with  that  study,  as  with  a  good 
many  other  pursuits,  the  dangers  have  been  pro- 
portionate to  the  advantages." 

She  uttered  a  wondering  "  How  ?" 

"  Because  it  has  been  the  direct  road  to  most  of 
the  idiocies.  As  long  as  people  are  studying  visi- 
ble, audible,  and  tangible  things,  they  are  using 
their  longest-evolved  and  therefore  most  practiced 
and  reliable  senses,  and  so  are  least  apt  to  wander 
into  error.  The  thing  is  '  right  before  them,'  as 
we  say,  and  keeps  their  minds  pinned  down  to  it. 
But  when  we  come  to  examine  our  thoughts  and 
feelings,  not  only  are  the  faculties  we  use  compara- 
tively new  and  unexercised  and  weak,  but  the  ob- 
jects of  our  study  are  as  elusive  as  our  powers  are 
feeble.  So  the  results  are  largely  vagaries  and 
confusions,  and  although  people  have  been  writing 
about  them  ever  since  they  began  writing  of  any- 
thing, it  is  only  very  lately  that  we've  begun  to  get 
them  into  any  sort  of  shape.  At  last,  though,  we've 
fastened  them  on  to  nerve-function,  where  we  could 
bring  our  reliable  old  senses  up  to  help  us,  and 
now  we're  getting  ahead." 

"  Are  you  coming  to  my  question  pretty  soon, 


The  Essential  Religion.  57 

Mr.  Calmire?"  she  asked  with  a  fascinating  little 
moue. 

"You  mustn't  ask  such  deep  ones,  dear,  if  you 
want  me  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  them  quickly.  I'm 
nearly  as  far  as  I  can  go,  though.  I've  been  tell- 
ing you  all  this  to  show  you  how  our  knowledge 
of  our  own  little  'spirits'  is  necessarily  so  vague. 
But  in  spite  of  that,  men  have  gratuitously  and 
irreverently  assumed  so  much  resemblance  between 
them  and  the  Infinity  behind  phenomena,  that 
they  have  professed  to  be  able  through  them  to 
study  It.  So  they  have  got  mind  and  morals 
hopelessly  jumbled  up  with  speculations  on  the 
other  Invisible  and  Intangible  behind  all  we  know, 
and  have  got  in  the  way  of  calling  the  whole  cha- 
otic mass  'spiritual  truth.'  Why,  when  I  was  a 
boy,  the  border  between  what  our  minds  can  do 
and  what  they  can't,  was  so  ill-defined,  that  we 
were  actually  told  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
a  science  of  ontology,  or  pure  being,  as  distinct 
from  any  manifestations  finite  creatures  know: 
and  yet  their  very  term  'science'  meant  some- 
thing known.  I  believe  they're  actually  talking 
such  nonsense  in  some  schools  to-day." 

After  a  little  pondering,  Nina  asked,  "  Never- 
theless, isn't  the  'spirit'  of  God  made  manifest 
through  His  works  and  through  our  own  souls?" 

"  Undoubtedly,"  assented  Calmire,  "only  there's 
no  more  made  manifest  than  is  made  manifest;  and 
all  that  is  made  manifest, is  just  our  good  old  relia- 
ble experience,  which  we've  had  to  gain  as  much 
in  the  sweat  of  our  brows,  as  we've  had  to  gain  our 
bread.  But  there's  a  type  of  mind  that  always 


-g  The  Essential  Religion. 

acts  as  if  it  could  get  ahead  of  the  primeval  curse: 
it  despises  the  slow  ways  of  investigation  and 
discovery,  and  claims  some  sort  of  insight  into 
something  that  no  two  of  its  votaries  agree  upon, 
except  in  calling  it  'spiritual  truth.'  And  it  is  just 
this  '  truth  '  that  makes  up  the  vast  mass  of  human 
error,  of  wasted  power,  of  fruitless  contention,  of 
wars  and  inquisitions  in  earlier  ages,  and  of  grown 
men  spending  their  time  on  '  heresy  trials'  in  ours." 

"  I  begin  to  understand  now,"  said  Nina,  after 
a  moment,  "  something  you  said  yesterday  morn- 
ing about  the  woman  I  am  growing  to  be, 
and  also  something  else  you  said  once  when 
we  were  driving  home  from  a  tennis-match — it 
seems  as  if  it  must  have  been  many  years  ago,  before 
I  was  born.  You  said  you  didn't  know  whether 
Faith,  according  to  my  old  ideas  of  it,  was  good 
for  me,  and  that  it  was  good  for  Mr.  Courtenay. 
Of  course  I  always  knew  why  it  was  necessary  for 
many  people.  I  may  not  be  very  bright,  but  I 
know  that  most  people  could  not  understand  what 
you  and  Mu — what  I  have  learned  here,"  she  sub- 
stituted, changingcoloragain.  Then  she  continued: 
"  But  it  seems  a  pity  that  people  should  be  hug- 
ging false  ideals,  and  worshipping  idols  and  pic- 
tures and  Bambinos." 

"Well,"  said  Calmire,  "rag  babies  have  often 
soothed  bereaved  and  demented  mothers.  The 
point  for  you  to  realize,  though,  is  that  just  as  fast 
as  humanity  was  able,  it  has  got  rid  of  anthropomor- 
phic conceptions  of  the  Infinite.  The  Greeks,  you 
know,  did  not  merely  have  an  anthropomorphic 
god  as  the  source  of  the  Infinite  Power,  but  had  a 


The  Essential  Religion.  59 

special  anthropomorphic  divinity  to  account  for 
each  revelation  of  Nature — a  universe  full  of  gods 
fighting,  loving,  lying,  and  stealing,  just  as  the 
Greeks  did  themselves.  The  Hebrews,  while  they 
professed  to  have  but  one  Supreme  being,  had,  like 
the  Greeks,  no  end  of  supernatural  ones — angels 
and  devils  and  translated  prophets.  Then  the 
early  Christians  added  the  Virgin  and  the  saints, 
with  altars  and  churches  built  to  a  great  variety  of 
them:  Rome  is  certainly  among  the  idolatrous 
cities  of  the  world." 

"But  now,  Mr.  Calmire,"  she  said,  "  you're  talk- 
ing of  the  Romish  Church." 

"  Oh!  The  later  churches,"  he  answered,  "  much 
to  their  credit,  have  been  practically  reducing  the 
number  of  those  anthropomorphic  conceptions  and 
idolatries — those  images — material  and  ideal;  and 
that  simply  goes  to  prove  what  I  said  :  that  as  fast 
as  humanity  can  get  some  conception  that  the 
Power  behind  our  lives  is  absolutely  ineffable,  it 
diminishes  its  attempts  to  express  it." 

"  Haven't  I  seen  somewhere,"  asked  Nina,  "  the 
word  Unknowable,  with  a  big  U?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire.  "And  in  one  sense,  I  think 
it  a  very  unfortunate  word.  Of  course  only  what 
is  revealed  to  us,  is  knowable  by  us;  and  so  the 
Revealing  Power,  except  so  far  as  revealed,  is  cor- 
rectly called  Unknowable.  But  as  we  know  more 
every  day,  the  Power  is,  in  that  sense,  eminently 
knowable,  and  so  far  as  the  other  word  implies 
that  it  is  not,  the  word  is  incorrect." 

"  It's  splendid,  inspiring,"  cried  Nina,  "  to  re- 
alize that  It  is  knowable,  and  that  each  little  step  in 


6o  The  Essential  Religion. 

knowledge  is  a  step  in  knowledge  of  the  Infinite." 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  "  I  don't  wonder  at  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  great  investigators,  when  it  has 
such  inspirations  behind  it.  That  enthusiasm  was 
never  as  great  as  in  our  day,  as  the  inspiration  has 
never  been  so  clear.  I  think  you  have  now  some 
idea  of  the  '  Religion  of  Science.'  It's  so  much 
decried,  because  it's  so  little  understood." 

;<  But/'  Nina  expostulated,  "I  don't  yet  see  how 
it  can  make  people  good.  You  said  that  you  would 
come  to  that." 

"So  I  will.  But  we  haven't  time  now.  You  were 
getting  toward  it  yourself  a  little  faster  than  you 
suspected,  when  you  exclaimed  a  moment  ago  that 
it  was  '  inspiring.'  If  you've  recovered  God  and 
the  spiritual  world,  suppose  you  try  to  take  the 
rest  for  granted  for  the  present." 

"  Yes,  I've  recovered  something,  or  at  least  I  have 
something  new.  But  something  is  gone,  something 
is  gone!" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  something  that  you  supposed  was 
there,  but  was  not.  As  we  grow  older,  something 
seems  to  go  every  day.  But  if  we  keep  our  souls 
open,  something  greater  comes:  we  are  on  the  sur- 
face of  an  Infinity,  from  which  each  step  of  evo- 
lution or  discovery,  brings  a  new  revelation.  Call 
it  God  or  Nature  or  what  you  will — no  sane  man 
can  escape  the  might  and  order  and  beauty  of 
that  Infinity,  no  skepticism  can.  It  is  here  to- 
day, as  it  was  before  you  felt  uncertain  about  it. 
Doubts  and  disappointments  and  the  contradic- 
tions of  mistaken  creeds,  but  affect  the  power  to 
realize  it  :  it  endures  despite  them  all.  All  our 


The  Essential  Religion.  6 1 

knowledge,  all  our  joys,  all  our  inspirations  come 
from  It;  the  laws  under  which  we  receive  them  are 
absolutely  unvarying,  absolutely  consistent,  and 
we  can  study  them  and  benefit  by  them.  Though 
we  cannot  know  them  all,  we  can  have  faith  in 
the  Infinite  Power,  Order,  and  Beauty  from  which 
they  emanate,  and  of  which  in  limited  measure 
they  partake;  and  so  we  can  have  faith  that  to  use 
our  little  fragments  of  will  in  accordance  with 
them,  is  growth  and  happiness,  and  that  oppo- 
sition to  them  is  destruction.  That  faith  is  founded 
on  the  evidence  of  our  senses;  it  is  unavoidable, 
and  it  is  the  foundation  of  all  right  reason  and  of 
all  true  religion." 

Both   sat   silent   some    moments,  when   he  said 
musingly:    "Perhaps    such    broad  outlooks  make 
life  more  impersonal,  but  they  make  it  more  calm 
— but,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  "  the  young  do  not 
care  for  calm:  they  want  joy." 

"I  have  done  with  joy,"  she  said.  "I  came  to 
you  to  ask  the  secret  of  your  calm." 

Calmire  smiled  with  a  skeptical  feeling  regard- 
ing her  ignorant  young  despair,  but  thought  best 
not  to  contradict  her,  and  merely  said  : 

"Well,  really,  dear,  I  believe  the  great  secret  of 
calm  is  the  realization  of  the  pettiness  of  all  that 
can  disturb  our  lives,  in  contrast  with  the  immens- 
ity that  includes  them." 

"Is  that  another  name  for  Faith  in  God?"  she 
asked. 

"  Faith  in  God  is  one  of  the  names  for  it." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

MARY'S  STORY. 

As  Calmire  mused  over  his  talk  with  Nina,  there 
kept  coming  up  in  his  mind  one  sentence  of  hers: 
"  I  have  done  with  joy." 

"  This  is  no  mere  religious  upset,"  he  had  already 
said  to  himself  more  than  once.  "  She  never  was 
devote — she  never  was  so  attached  to  her  old  con- 
ceptions that  the  mere  breakdown  of  them  has 
afflicted  her  so.  There's  other  trouble  somewhere." 
Then  he  thought  of  his  own  great  trouble  over 
Muriel,  and  suddenly  reflected  that  Nina  had  started 
to  pronounce  Muriel's  name,  changed  color,  and  al- 
tered her  phrase.  "It  must  be  there! — For  some 
reason,  it  must  be  there!"  he  said  half  aloud.  But 
he  could  not  imagine  any  way  to  account  for  her 
knowing  of  Muriel's  difficulty,  and  so  dismissed  the 
subject.  But  of  course  it  would  keep  coming  up. 

One  afternoon,  they  were  out  with  the  tandem 
again,  and  passed  Courtenay  driving  in  a  low 
phaeton  with  his  sister.  As  salutations  were  ex- 
changed, the  two  women,  though  their  goings  and 
comings  had  happened  to  prevent  their  meeting 
yet,  looked  directly  into  each  other's  eyes  with 
sympathetic  recognition,  and  really  bowed  to  each 
other,  rather  than  to  their  actual  acquaintances  in 
the  respective  vehicles.  After  they  had  passed, 

62 


Mary's  Story.  63 

Nina  said  to  Calmire:  "She's  so  lovely!  Why 
don't  you  tell  me  her  story?" 

He  had  already  deliberated  whether  he  should 
tell  it  to  Nina,  and,  of  course,  he  realized  that  it 
is  always  a  relief  to  sorrow,  to  sympathize  with 
the  sorrows  of  others.  He  now  felt,  too,  that 
Nina  had  reached  the  point  intellectually  where 
his  objections  to  telling  the  story  would  not  apply. 
He  turned  toward  her  and  asked:  "Do  you  want 
the  gist  of  it,  or  the  details?" 

"  All  that  you'll  tell  me." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  he,  "  let's  wait  till  we're 
quietly  at  home  where  there  won't  be  so  much  to 
distract  us.  I  don't  want  to  have  my  mind  too 
much  off  my  leader  this  afternoon  anyhow,  for 
he's  new  to  the  position;  or  too  much  off  my  story 
either,  for  that  matter,  when  I  tell  it." 

They  had  started  right  after  lunch  in  the  brisk 
October  afternoon,  and  got  home  long  before  sun- 
set. It  was  warm  enough  to  sit  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  piazza  in  their  wraps,  and  he  began  the  story 
there. 

"Well!  When  Mary  was  about  eighteen,  she  fell 
in  love  with  Arthur  Woodleigh — a  bosom-friend 
of  mine,  and  the  finest  man  I  ever  knew.  They 
worshipped  each  other,  and  you  know  enough 
about  Mary  to  realize  that  it  was  for  good  reason, 
if  he  was  her  equal,  and  he  was. 

"  On  leaving  college,  Arthur  expected  to  preach, 
though  he  was  like  anything  but  the  typical 
divinity  student  01  that  time.  He  was  as  splendid 
physically  as  Courtenay  is  now;  but,  unlike  our 
St.  John,  he  had  had  a  pretty  good  crop  of 


64  Mary's  Story. 

wild  oats  to  sow,  and  had  sowed  them  with  a  gen- 
erous hand,  as  he  did  everything.  He  was  full  of 
love  for  all  things  that  live,  so  when  he  outgrew 
his  nonsense,  the  first  serious  question  he  put  to  him- 
self was:  how  he  could  be  of  most  use.  Strange  as 
it  may  appear  to  you,  politics  was  seldom  thought 
of  then  as  a  career  of  beneficence.  There  was  not 
as  much  taught  in  the  colleges  about  American  his- 
tory and  politics  as  about  those  of  Greece  and  Rome: 
virtually  all  the  colleges  had  been  founded  to  make 
clergymen,  and  the  ministry  was  the  one  career  gen- 
erally turned  to  by  those  whose  first  wish  was  to  serve 
their  fellow-men.  So  Arthur  thought  of  preaching, 
and  this,  you  can  realize,  made  his  suit  for  Mary  par- 
ticularly congenial  to  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay." 

"  Was  the  father  a  preacher  too  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"Yes,  and  the  grandfather  and  the  great-grand- 
father, and,  for  all  I  know,  so  on  back  through  a 
line  of  savage  medicine-men.  But  Mary's  not  that 
way,  though.  She  takes  after  her  mother,  who 
was  descended  from  the  grandfather  of  Thomas 
Jefferson.  But  we're  getting  away  from  the  story 
again.  The  old  people  favored  the  match,  as  I  said. 
The  facts  that  Arthur  was  rich  and  well-born,  were 
not  considered  obstacles,  though  I  believe  the  old 
gentleman  did  think  his  clothes  fitted  rather  too 
well  and  were  of  rather  too  worldly  a  cut.  Well, 

when  Arthur  got  out  of  college  (They  were  en- 
gaged during  his  Senior  year)  he  began  to  study 
theology.' 

"Why  didn't  they  marry?"  asked  Nina.  "You 
say  he  was  rich." 

"  Her  parents  persuaded  them  to  wait  until  he 


Mary's  Story.  65 

should  be  at  least  on  the  road  toward  his  profes- 
sion. But  the  road  toward  it  proved  the  road 
away  from  it.  Quantities  of  things  that  he  had 
taken  for  granted  until  he  stopped  to  think  about 
them,  he  found  he  couldn't  take  at  all." 

"  Such  as  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Well,  he's  told  me  that  the  very  first  thing  that 
aroused  his  skepticism,  was  the  attempt  of  the  cate- 
chism to  make  him  responsible  to  keep  a  promise 
which  had  been  made  for  him  by  somebody  else 
without  his  knowledge  or  consent — I  mean  the 
promises  of  his  sponsors  in  baptism.  Then,  I  re- 
member, he  and  I  had  our  doubts  about  eternal 
punishment,  even  at  that  time." 

"  Even  at  that  time  !  Why,  it  was  not  so  very 
long  ago." 

"  About  four  hundred  years,  I  think,"  said  Cal- 
mire;  "  that  is  to  say,  that  counted  by  revolutions 
in  thought,  it  is  about  as  long  since  the  time  when 
people  began  really  to  get  hold  of  the  idea  of  the 
Conservation  of  Force,  and  when  Darwin's  Origin 
of  Species  and  Spencer's  First  Principles  appeared, 
as  it  was  before  that  time  to  the  days  of  Luther." 

"  Well!"  said  Nina,  with  a  long  breath.  "  Perhaps 
I've  begun  to  understand  a  little  of  that  since  I've 
been  here." 

"You  see,"  said  Calmire,  "that  the  books  which 
everybody  reads  now,  or  rather  the  echoes  of  which 
everybody  reads,  were  then  read  only  by  very  few. 
I  had  read  them  before  Arthur  had.  He  was  a 
youngster  in  college  when  I  was  a  man  of  thirty.  He 
got  to  his  skeptical  attitude  from  the  inconsisten- 
cies of  what  he  was  studying,  and  almost  independ- 


66  Mary's  Story. 

ently  of  modern  science.  Geology  and  Astronomy 
were  in  those  days  '  explained  '  away  with  more 
or  less  success.  It  was  not  really  until  Darwin 
began  to  take  hold,  that  the  new  revolution  began. 
But  aren't  you  tired  of  having  me  talk  all  around 
Robin  Hood's  barn,  when  you  simply  want  me  to 
tell  you  about  Mary  and  Arthur?" 

"  Oh  no!  We'll  get  to  it  in  time,  and  I'm  inter- 
ested in  all  you're  saying.  Why,  most  of  your 
outside  talk  has  been  simply  in  answer  to  my  in- 
terruptions." 

"  We  won't  get  through  the  tale  to-day,"  said 
Calmire,  "  if  I  try  to  give  you  a  detailed  history  of 
Arthur's  mental  development.  To  make  a  long 
story  short,  he  soon  came  to  look  upon  Christianity 
simply  as  upon  other  religions,  admitting  it  to  be 
the  best,  of  course.  But  in  those  days,  it  hardly 
entered  Arthur's  head,  or  anybody's  else,  that 
there  could  be  Religion  pure  and  simple,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  Christian  religion  or  the  Bud- 
dhist religion  or  the  Mahometan  religion." 

"  But,"  asked  Nina,  "  by  '  Religion  pure  and 
simple,'  don't  you  mean  the  religion  you  have  been 
showing  me  in  Nature,  and  isn't  that  what  I  have 
often  seen  alluded  to  with  respect  by  orthodox 
writers  as  '  natural  religion  '  ?" 

"  How  our  flowers  do  grow!"  exclaimed  Calmire, 
smiling.  "  No,  the  two  things  look  a  good  deal 
alike,  but  they  have  important  points  of  difference. 
Orthodox  Christians  have  respected  only  so  much 
of  natural  religion  as  supported  their  dogmas,  and 
the  discovery  of  the  law  of  Evolution  has  so  ex- 
panded it  as  to  make  it  virtually  a  new  thing  that 


Marys  Story.  67 

destroys  many  of  the  dogmas.  Very  few  orthodox 
writers  have  yet  really  tried  to  use  it,  though  most 
of  them  have  heartily  abused  it.  Well,"  he  con- 

tinued, "  of  course  Arthur's  views  of  religion  did 
not  suit  old  Mr.  Courtenay,  and  he  regarded  Ar- 
thur as  on  the  way  to  eternal  perdition." 

"And  that's  Mary's  story!"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  Oil  no:  that's  only  the  beginning  of  it  !  Of 
course  the  match  was  broken  off,  not  by  any  means 
as  a  matter  of  conviction  by  Mary,  but  as  what  she 
considered  a  matter  of  duty.  The  worst  of  it  was, 
that  the  more  she  tried  to  reason  with  her  father, 
the  more  she  convinced  him  that  Arthur's  notions 
were  leading  her  to  perdition  as  well  as  Arthur." 

"  What  did  Arthurdo  ?    Why  didn't  he  take  her  ?" 

"  Largely  because  she  wouldn't  go.  She  would 
make  no  promises  to  either  side.  At  times,  she 
would  hope  that  her  father  would  look  on  it  dif- 
ferently, and  she  would  cheer  Arthur  by  counsel- 
ing patience.  At  other  times,  she  would  simply 
preach  submission,  and  poor  Arthur's  soul  was  be- 
ing worn  out  of  him  by  alternately  climbing  the 
heights  of  hope  and  being  dashed  into  the  depths 
of  despair." 

"  But  she  must  have  suffered  more  still,"  said  Nina. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  Calmire  responded. 
"  Men  and  women  in  love  are  spurred  by  widely  dif- 
ferent necessities — far.  more  so  than  you  can  realize. 
To  some  men — probably  to  the  manliest  men,  such 
a  state  of  affairs  is  worse  than  it  can  be  to  women 
of  corresponding  womanliness.  After  two  or  three 
years  of  it,  Arthur  went  off  to  the  war.  He  had 
always  felt  it  something  of  a  duty  to  go,  but  he 


68  Marys  Story. 

did  not  want  to  go  away  from  his  terrible  problem.'' 

"  How  did  she  feel  about  his  going?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Oh,  of  course  she  thought  him  rather  too 
fine  for  '  food  for  powder,'  though  she  always  said: 
'If  it  comes  to  the  point  where  such  men  ate 
needed,  I  must  submit.'" 

"  Why,"  said  Nina, "  weren't  the  best  men  needed? 
I  thought  brains  had  something  to  do  with  making 
wars  short  and  merciful." 

"And  in  so  thinking,"  said  Calmire,  "you  show 
yourself  possessed  of  more  of  that  article  than 
most  of  your  sex — more,  probably,  than  poor 
Mary  had  at  that  time,  though  your  heart  is 
not  juggling  with  your  brains,  as  hers  did.  Her 
father  was  a  parson,  too;  yours  was  a  soldier  in 
his  day,  and  so  was  your  great-grandfather,  who 
was  my  great-grandfather  too." 

"  Didn't  you  go  to  the  war  too,  Mr.  Calmire  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  One  reason  was  having  so  many  relatives  and 
associations  on  both  sides,  and  having  also  a  weak 
habit  of  looking  on  both  sides  of  any  question: — 
and  there  were  other  reasons.  But  if  one  could 
see  the  merits  of  a  matter  from  in  front  as  well  as 
from  behind,  I  think  I  should  have  gone  in  spite  of 
all  the  reasons.  Arthur  went,  however." 

"Yes,  from  despair,"  said  Nina.  "How  many 
went  from  pure  patriotism  ?" 

"That,"  said  Calmire,  "is  not  for  a  man  who 
stayed  at  home,  to  judge.  But  you  don't  quite  do 
Arthur  justice.  Despair  certainly  was  in  his  heart, 
but  there  were  other  things  too.  And,  in  a  short 


Marys  Story.  69 

time,  the}'  included  a  bullet-hole." 

"Of  course!"  said  Nina,  grasping  the  arms  of 
her  chair. 

"  But  not  one  of  the  '  of  course  '  kind,"  said  Cal- 
mire,  "  or  perhaps  I  would  not  have  spoken  of  it 
quite  in  that  way.  The  hole  was  not  all  the  way 
through,  but  a  graze  on  one  side.  It  was  an  almost 
miraculous  sort  of  wound,  for  a  trifling  difference 
in  position,  even  if  it  had  not  perforated  the  organ, 
would  have  made  the  heart-beats  so  painful  as  to 
soon  wear  a  man  out.  But  this  was  a  wound  for  a 
man  with  any  decent  show,  to  get  well  of." 

"  Oh  he  must  have  got  well  !"  exclaimed  Nina, 
leaning  forward  with  a  glowing  face,  her  hands 
still  grasping  both  arms  of  her  chair. 

"Ah,  my  child  !  my  child  !"  exclaimed  Calmire, 
"  Nature  doesn't  work  on  your  basis.  The  doctors 
said  he  would  get  well,  and  soon  began  to  wonder 
why  he  didn't,  and  after  some  days,  one  of  them 
told  me  (for  I  went  down  to  Arthur)  that  they  were 
satisfied  something  was  preying  on  his  spirits,  and 
that  he  never  could  get  well  as  long  as  it  did.  I 
wrote  to  old  Courtenay.  His  answer  was,  sub- 
stantially, that  he  was  as  sorry  as  I  was  (and  I 
believe  he  was  sincere),  but  that  he  could  not  see 
the  gain  in  sacrificing  Mary's  eternal  life  for  a  few 
years  of  Arthur's  earthly  one. — That  finished  what 
little  orthodoxy  there  was  left  in  me!"  said  Cal- 
mire, "though  I've  recovered  some  of  it  since. 
But  I  was  simply  in  a  blind  rage.  I  went  to 
Arthur  and  told  him  I  was  going  after  Mary,  and 
that  he  must  hold  on  till  I  should  get  back." 

"Where  were  you  ?"  asked  Nina. 


7O  Marys  Story. 

"  Down  in  Virginia  at  a  little  farm-house  near 
Spottsylvania.  Arthur  asked  me  if  the  old  man 
had  given  in,  and  I  told  him,  saving  your  presence, 
that  the  old  man  might  go  to  the  devil,  that  I  was 
going  to  bring  Mary.  I  can  see  his  pale  face  now, 
as  he  smiled  to  thank  me,  but  there  was  no  hope 
in  his  smile. 

"  Well,"  continued  Calmire  after  a  little  pause, 
during  which  Nina  did  put  out  her  hand  and  take 
hold  of  his,  "  it  was  not  a  very  quick  journey — all 
sorts  of  obstacles  in  war-time,  you  know.  But  after 
three  days,  I  was  up  at  Mary's  home.  I  had 
telegraphed  her  that  Arthur  would  die  if  she  did 
not  go  to  him,  and  that  I  would  be  after  her  on 
Thursday  morning — I  think  it  was.  The  old  man 
met  me  at  the  door,  and  she  stood  behind  him  with 
her  bonnet  on.  I  pitied  the  poor  fellow  almost  as 
much  as  I  did  her.  He  was  a  saintly  man,  but  a 
narrow  one.  He  shook  hands  and  said  nothing 
until  I  was  in  the  house.  Then  he  said  :  '  Mr.  Cal- 
mire, this  is  terrible ! '  '  Yes,  I  rather  think  it 
is!'  said  I.  'What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?' 
Perhaps  I  would  not  express  myself  in  quite  the 
same  way  now.  I  think  I  must  remember  every 
word  of  that  interview.  He  answered:  '  It  seems  to 
me  the  greater  sin  to  let  my  daughter  go.'  '  What 
Sire  you  going  to  do,  Mary  ?'  I  asked  her.  '  I'm  go- 
ing!' said  she.  'My  daughter!  O  my  daugh- 
ter!' cried  poor  Courtenay,  the  tears  streaming 
down  his  face,  and  I  heard  Mrs.  Courtenay  sob- 
bing in  the  parlor.  The  old  man  turned  and 
put  his  back  against  the  door,  and  stood  there 
crying,  but  as  firm  as  a  rock.  I  call  him  old  man 


Marys  Story.  7 1 

from  the  habit  of  that  time,  though  he  was  really 
not  over  forty-five.  I  thought  of  our  ages  very 
distinctly,  because  I  had  to  say  to  him:  'Well,  Mr. 
Courtenay,  we've  barely  time  to  catch  the  down 
train.  Are  you  going  to  let  us  out?'  'I  must 
not!  Oh,  I  must  not! '  he  cried.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  feeling  that  came  over  me  then:  I  was  in  a 
hurry,  and  I  was  not  born  a  patient  man,  so  I  said 
to  him  (I  wish  now  I'd  put  it  milder):  '  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay, the  rights  of  conscience  and  the  rights  of 
parental  control  can  be  carried  to  extremes.  The 
line  has  got  to  be  drawn  somewhere,  and  I  draw  it 
at  murder.  You  must  let  us  go!'  'No,  I  must 
not!  I  must  not! '  he  said,  but  stopped  crying  and 
began  to  look  ugly.  I  was  fool  enough  in  those 
days  to  let  another  man's  ugliness  make  me  ugly 
too,  so  I  said :  '  Stand  aside,'  and  went  towards  him. 
He  said:  '  If  you  take  her,  it  must  be  by  force,  and 
force  against  the  minister  of  God  defending  His 
law.'  'There's  no  time  for  cant,'  said  I  (I'm  sorry 
I  did),  and  I  put  my  hand  on  him.  Mary  grasped 
my  arm.  I  told  her  that  I  shouldn't  hurt  him,  but 
that  he  must  let  us  go.  Something  in  her  eyes 
quieted  me,  and  I  said  to  him:  'Mr.  Courtenay,  I 
do  respect  your  earnestness  of  conviction,  and  hate 
to  have  to  oppose  it,  but  I'm  going  to  take  Mary 
through  that  door;  and  unless  you  doubt  it,  to  try 
to  prevent  me  is  simply  cruelty  to  all  concerned." 
His  eyes  looked  like  blue  steel,  for  perhaps  ten 
seconds.  Then  he  said:  '  I  cannot  doubt  it,  and  I 
may  as  well  yield  now  as  later;  but  all  the  same,  I 
yield  to  force,'  and  he  stepped  aside.  Mary  kissed 
her  mother,  who  now  stood  in  the  parlor  door,  and 


72  Marys  Story. 

turned  to  her  father,  who  seemed  prepared  to  kiss 
her.  She  stood  still,  however,  and  said:  'Father, 
what  can  I  say  to  Arthur?'  He  answered:  'My 
child,  if  my  poor  life  could  settle  this  question — 
could  save  his — I  would  give  it,  over  and  over 
again,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  else  to  say 
to  him.'  She  said:  'Good-bye,  Father,'  and  went 
out  of  the  door  without  touching  him.  She  has 
never  seen  him  since." 

"  Can  she  be  so  unforgiving?"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  It's  not  that,"  Calmire  answered.  "  Or  at 
least  it's  not  entirely  that.  He  has  not  since  taken 
squarely  any  attitude  that  entitles  him  to  forgive- 
ness. Mary  is  no  sentimentalist.  The  usual  '  kiss 
and  make  up,'  unless  there's  more  behind  it  than 
there  can  be  here,  is  the  way  of  children.  It's 
doubtful  whether  her  seeing  him  would  justify  the 
pain  it  would  bring  upon  her.  Well!"  Calmire 

continued  after  a  moment,  "he  came  to  me  with 
the  strangest  face  I  ever  saw,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  I  had  to  take  it:  I  don't  remember  that 
I  ever  rejected  a  proffered  hand.  He  came  to  the 
door  and  said  to  us,  so  that  Mary,  who  was  al- 
ready down  the  steps,  could  hear:  '  May  God  bless 
you  both  and — and — '  I  think  he  said  'spare  him,' 
but  his  voice  sank  and  I'm  uncertain.  When  I 
got  Mary  into  the  carriage,  I  noticed  that  a  terri- 
ble change  had  come  over  her  face.  It  was  set  and 
cold.  She  said,  after  I  got  in,  *  Thank  you,  Legrand  ! ' 
and  grasped  my  hand  so  that  it  pained  me,  and 
held  it  until  we  had  driven  seven  miles  to  the  sta- 
tion, only  answering  me  in  monosyllables  until  I 
Saw  that  it  was  better  not  to  talk  to  her. 


Marys  Story.  73 

"  Well,  we  got  down  into  Virginia.  When  we  were 
within  a  few  miles  of  the  house  where  Arthur  was 
lying  (we  were  riding  in  an  ambulance,  and  that,  by 
the  way,  was  the  first  time  I  saw  Clint  Russell  :  he 
was  driving  it)  Mary  pointed  to  a  man  in  an  army 
hat  but  a  black  coat,  and  asked  if  he  was  a  chaplain. 
I  told  her  I  supposed  so.  Then  she  asked  if  there 
was  one  near  Arthur,  and  when  I  said  it  was  doubt- 
ful, she  told  me  to  ask  if  this  one  would  *jo  with  us." 

"  She  wasn't  pestered  about  his  soul?"  exclaimed 
Nina.  "  Oh!  she  meant  to  marry  him  !" 

"  Yes.  When  we  got  to  Arthur,  the  doctor  told 
me  he  was  just  alive.  I  went  into  his  room.  He 
did  not  give  any  sign  of  recognition.  I  sent  Mary 
in  atone.  She  told  me  some  time  afterwards  that 
his  hand  had  closed  on  hers — that  was  all." 

After  a  minute  or  two,  Nina  wiped  her  eyes 
and  said: 

"  It  sounds  like  two  hundred  years  ago.  Fortu- 
nately such  things  have  grown  rarer." 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  "  as  dogma  has  lost  its 
hold.  It  was  not  religion  that  made  this  trouble, 
but  dogma — going  outside  of  all  real  questions  of 
moral  life  into  a  lot  of  factitious  ones,  and  assum- 
ing as  facts  a  lot  of  statements  and  theories  on 
subjects  that  we  know  nothing  about." 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  where  does  dogma  begin  and 
religion  end  ?" 

"Just  where  common  sense  and  experience  end. 
There's  enough  in  the  Bible  that  conforms  to  both, 
and  it's  easy  enough  to  see  how  the  rest  got  there." 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 
COURTENAY'S  FAITH. 

BUT  why  had  Courtenay  been  standing  all  this 
time  with  his  feet  pointing  toward  Nina  and  the 
grass  growing  under  them  ?  By  September,  he 
always  needed  a  vacation,  and  always  deserved 
it.  This  time,  the  nervous  shock  of  his  accident 
made  him  doubly  need  it.  After  he  met  Nina  at 
the  tennis-match  early  in  that  month,  he  met  her 
but  two  or  three  times  more,  and  where  private 
chat  was  impossible;  and  then  he  was  off,  by  pre- 
vious arrangement,  to  spend  some  time  with  his 
parents.  He  had  intended  to  get  a  chance  to  see 
Nina  before  going,  by  running  over  to  say  good-bye 
to  Mr.  Calmire.  But  an  hour  before  he  expected  to 
start,  he  met  that  gentleman  on  the  street,  and  in 
response  to  his  interested  inquiries,  had  to  tell  him 
of  his  intended  vacation,  and  to  receive  his  good- 
bye on  the  spot.  This  made  him  think  of  post- 
poning his  departure,  but  his  faithfulness  to  ap- 
pointments where  others  were  concerned,  made  it 
natural  for  him  to  go,  even  had  not  his  love  for  his 
parents  made  it  unnatural  to  disappoint  them. 
And  toward  them,  he  felt  something  more  than 
ordinary  love  and  duty.  His  father's  relation  to 
Mary  inspired  the  son  with  an  almost  yearning 
pity.  Years  before,  Mary  had  said  to  him:  "  Father 
probably  admits  no  question  of  forgiveness;  but 

74 


toUrtenay's  Faith.  ?$ 

iell  him  that  I  think  I  have  conquered  all  bitter 
feeling,  and  that  I  will  see  him  when  I  feel  able  to." 
But  she  had  not  felt  physically  able  to,  and  Cour- 
tenay  knew  enough  of  the  condition  of  her*  nervous 
system,  to  realize  whenever  she  said  this,  that  it 
was  true.  The  father's  condition,  though  he  would 
not  admit  it  to  himself,  was  one  of  remorse.  If  he 
had  been  able  to  admit  it  and  seek  forgiveness, 
the  occasion  for  Courtenay's  pity  for  him  would 
have  passed. 

As  Courtenay  thought  of  leaving  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Nina,  he  said  to  himself  :  "  The  Lord  will 
bless  my  following  my  duty,"  and  he  unconsciously 
made  the  fact  that  he  had  had  this  opportunity  to 
follow  duty  in  the  face  of  his  desire  to  see  her,  a 
half-realized  argument  that  he  and  she  were  des- 
tined for  each  other. 

Courtenay  had  but  just  returned  from  his  vaca- 
tion two  days  before  Nina  saw  him  driving  with 
his  sister,  and  it  was  not  unnatural  that  two  days 
later  still,  he  should  appear  at  Fleuvemont  to  "  re- 
port himself"  to  his  patron,  though  neither  of  them 
would  have  used  that  word. 

This  time,  Fortune  favored  him.  Calmire  was 
away,  and  Nina  was  on  the  piazza  in  the  warm 
October  sun,  when  Courtenay  approached  the 
house.  He  had  gone  over  by  rail  and  walked  up 
from  the  station. 

When  Nina  recognized  him,  she  felt  a  little 
shrinking,  but  it  was  too  late  to  run  away  without 
hurting  his  feelings,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  do 
that,  nor  is  it  certain  that,  all  in  all,  she  really 
wished  to  run  awav.  She  even  had  felt  a  desire 


j6  Courtenay' s  Faith. 

to  talk  over  some  of  her  skeptical  troubles  with 
him.  So  she  was  perfectly  truthful  when,  ad- 
vancing to  the  top  of  the  steps  and  holding  out 
her  hand,  she  said: 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Courtenay,  and  es- 
pecially to  see  you  walking  with  such  a  vigorous 
step.  Of  course  you're  quite  well  ?" 

Perhaps  her  speech  was  a  little  more  elaborate 
than  it  would  have  been  if  her  self-consciousness 
had  arisen  only  from  the  recollection  of  her  "  at- 
tempt to  murder  him,"  as  Muriel  had  come  to  call 
it.  But  the  sight  of  him  had  at  once  brought  up 
not  only  what  she  felt  of  his  sentiments  toward 
her,  but  the  thought  of  Muriel — or  rather  that 
thought  intensified:  the  thought  itself,  with  all 
its  terrible  complications,  had  seldom  left  her  during 
many  days.  It  made  her  life  a  double  one. 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  perfectly  well,  thanks,"  Courtenay 
answered  simply. 

"  Your  vacation  has  done  you  good  !  Then  you 
have  enjoyed  it." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way  I  did.  But  I  was  impatient  to 
get  back." 

"Why?     Was  not  your  work  going  on  right?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  that."  He  had  reached  the 
Rubicon,  but  his  plunge  was  an  awkward  though 
an  honest  one.  "  I  wanted  to  get  back  to  you." 

"  I  should  think  you  had  had  more  reason  to 
want  to  avoid  me,"  she  laughed,  half  nervously. 

"  No,  no  !     God  himself  sent  us  to  each  other  !" 

From  where  he  had  seated  himself,  against  the 
post  at  the  edge  of  the  piazza,  his  face  was  turned 
up  to  her  with  the  fervor  of  conviction  and  adora- 


Courtenay  s  Faith.  77 

tion.  It  was  very  beautiful,  but  it  struck  her 
with  misgiving.  Expressions  of  adoration,  she 
had  known  before:  but  the  confidence  in  this 
man's  face  and  speech  was  strange  and  startling. 
She  had  long  felt  that  Courtenay  loved  her: 
but,  young  as  she  was,  she  was  not  a  stranger 
to  feelings  of  that  kind.  She  was  a  stranger, 
though,  to  such  confidence  in  an  admirer:  she 
had  met  him  oftener  than  has  been  detailed 
here,  but  not  often  enough  to  account  for 
this.  Her  blush  was  as  much  that  of  confu- 
sion as  of  modesty,  when  she  answered,  half  at 
random: 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"  You  have  been  made  the  instrument  of  death 
and  life  to  me.  I  was  away  from  earth.  When  I 
came  back,  I  came  to  you.  When  I  stayed,  I  stayed 
for  you.  That  I  love  you,  is  but  the  half.  I  live 
in  you.  You  are  my  condition  of  being." 

"Why,  Mr.  Courtenay,  you  hardly  know  me!" 

"What  is  knowledge  ?"  ,  he  asked,  and,  too  ab- 
sorbed to  notice  her  startled  shrinking,  went  on: 
"The  pride  of  it  is  leading  the  world  to  destruc- 
tion! One  does  not  need  any  such  mole's-wisdom 
to  comprehend  you.  You  do  not  need  to  be 
known  :  you  are  like  the  angels,  for  faith — and 
worship  !" 

No  woman  was  ever  indifferent  to  such  address, 
and  no  devoted  face  ever  glowed  from  canvas  with 
more  loveliness  than  was  in  Courtenay's  as  it 
yearned  up  toward  her.  For  an  instant,  she  was 
lost  in  his  fervor  and  his  beauty.  Then  there 
seemed  to  come  to  her  a  voice,  calm  and  quiet, 


78  Cwrttnay's  Faith. 


and  with  some  reminiscent  associations  of  the  in- 
finite Order.  It  simply  said: 

"  Is  this  thing  true  ?" 

And  the  answer  she  made  was: 

"  /,  a  thing  to  be  worshipped,  when  worship 
means  what  it  does  to  him  !" 

All  this  went  through  her  mind  so  fast  that 
Courtenay  hardly  noticed  her  pause  before,  flush- 
ing, she  said: 

"  Mr.  Courtenay,  you  have  done  me  the  greatest 
honor  that — " 

"  No;  it's  not  that,"  he  said,  interrupting  her, 
"  it's  not  in  that  way — I  don't  do  it :  God  appointed 
it.  I  don't  deserve  it,  perhaps  of  myself  I  would 
not  feel  worthy  to  ask  for  it.  But  as  God  has 
sent  us  to  each  other,  I  humbly,  but  oh  so  grate- 
fully, turn  toward  you," 

Perhaps,  as  a  woman,  she  would  have  been  bet- 
ter pleased  had  the  man  thought  more  of  his  own 
feeling,  and  less  of  God's  will ;  and  certainly,  as  the 
woman  she  had  recently  become,  she  would  have 
been  better  pleased  had  he  had  less  confidence  in 
his  own  ability  to  interpret  the  Infinite,  less  readi- 
ness to  attribute  to  it  any  swerving  aside  to  any 
special  man  from  the  courses  laid  out  for  all  men; 
and  less  readiness  to  assume  that  if  it  were  so  to 
swerve,  it  would  specially  devise  such  kind  and 
dignified  means  of  introducing  a  country  parson 
to  a  city  belle,  as  having  her  run  him  down  in  a 
boat.  But  though  she  might  have  been  better 
pleased,  she  was  not  quite  displeased.  She  had  too 
much  healthy  vanity  to  suppose  his  devotion  quite 
limited  to  religious  enthusiasm,  and  she  could  not 
be  insensible  to  his  merits  or  his  charm. 


dourienay's  Faith.  ffi 

Her  natural  candor,  or  uficonscious  tact  brought 
a  diversion  by  letting  him  see  this. 

"Yet  I  respect  you  enough,  Mr.  Courtenay,  td 
feel  that  the  interpretation  you  have  given  to  God's 
will,  does  me  honor,  even  if  I — if — if  it's  not  on  a 
strictly  professional  subject." 

"  Oh,  my  profession  covers  everything,  or  ought 
to.  I'm  a  weak  and  fallible  man,  but  surely  if 
my  office  is  to  be  useful  in  anything,  it  should  be 
most  useful  in  what  most  concerns  the  deepest 
feelings.  But  you  know  that  I'm  not  speaking  to 
you  as  a  priest,  but  as  a  man,  and  as  one  who  loves 
you." 

"  But  when  I  said  that  in  doing  so,  you  honored 
me,  you  disclaimed  doing  so." 

"  Yes,  there  is  more  than  that." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Courtenay,  listen  to  me."  She  did 
not  at  first  speak  with  the  tenderness  that  such 
women  are  apt  to  use  when  they  have  similar 
things  to  say.  There  was  a  certain  assurance  in 
his  manner  which  seemed  superior  to  the  need  for 
tenderness.  But  with  her  next  sentence,  her  natu- 
ral self  had  occasion  to  come  forward.  "  I  know 
what  pain  is,  well  enough  to  make  being  the  cause 
of  it  hurt  me.  But  I  know  that  we  are  apt  to 
make  it  greater  by  trying  to  shut  our  eyes  to 
painful  things.  I  know  you  love  the  truth,  or  at 
least  you  love  a  great  many  things  because  you  hold 
them  to  be  the  truth:  but  I  believe  that  the  way  to 
truth  is  not  by  believing  things  because  we  find 
them  pleasant,  and  still  less  by  giving  the  beliefs 
we  make  for  ourselves,  a  superhuman  authority. 
For  my  part,  much  as  I  honor  you,  I'm  not  ready 


8o  Courtenays  Faith. 

to  flatter  myself  that  Nature,  or  God  if  you  prefer, 
has  adapted  us  for  each  other  at  all.  Probably  to 
adapt  us  to  each  other,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  Na- 
ture would  have  to  make  me  a  much  better  woman." 

"  I  know  that  you  are  as  good  as  it  is  given  to 
humanity  to  be,"  he  protested.  "  And  I  know  that 
Heaven  sent  you  to  me.  Why,  everything  has 
been  different  to  me  since  my  eyes  opened  upon 
your  face — my  work,  my  faith  have  all  been  in- 
spired by  the  very  thought  of  you!" 

She  reflected  what  this  meant  in  a  life  like  his,  and 
she  contrasted  with  it,  protestations  which,  young 
as  she  was,  she  had  heard  more  than  once,  that  her 
companionship  would  inspire  lives  that  she  knew  had 
been  empty,  and  were  made  to  remain  so.  Here, 
without  her  even  willing  it,  she  actually  had  been 
made  by  this  good  man  a  helper  in  his  beneficent 
work  !  What  had  her  influence  done  for  that  other 
man  who  had  broken  her  own  life  ?  In  her  girlish 
ignorance,  she  had  not  realized  that  Muriel's  fault 
could  have  been  committed  before  her  influence 
touched  him.  Her  life  was  broken,  and  yet  here 
she  was  of  use  in  Courtenay's.  There  still  lingered 
in  her,  enough  of  her  old  enthusiasm  for  his  faiths, 
to  glow  up  under  sympathetic  stimulus.  Those 
faiths  were  at  the  basis  of  his  noble  life,  and  she 
— actually  she — had  been  a  helper  in  that !  She 
had  not  willed  it.  She  had  not  deserved  it.  Her 
voice  faltered  as  she  said: 

*'  Mr.  Courtenay,  I  am  unworthy  of  this.  Even 
your  goodness  has  not  made  me  worthy  of  it." 

"  As  if  anything  I  could  do,  could  be  worthy  of 


Courte nay's  Faith.  $l 

you  !"  he  answered.     "  But  perhaps  you  will  make 
me  able  to  deserve  you  !" 

That  tone  of  confidence  again  !  It  was  not  arro- 
gant. It  certainly  was  not  insincere.  But  was  it 
true?  She  sat  still  for  some  time,  pondering,  lean- 
ing forward  a  little,  her  right  hand  turned  up- 
ward lying  in  the  palm  of  her  left,  her  eyes  stead- 
ily gaz:ng  over  the  river  and  the  hills,  as  if  the 
little  hieroglyphs  that  the  changing  foliage  was 
dotting  over  them,  held  hidden  some  answers  to 
the  riddles  of  her  life.  The  past  was  pain  and 
chaos,  and  seemed  to  have  reached  a  definite  and 
hopeless  end.  Here  seemed  offered  her,  order, 
usefulness,  peace.  The  two  visions  opened  before 
her,  but  only  as  two  domains  belonging  to  stran- 
gers— for  contemplation:  not,  at  the  moment,  with 
any  sense  of  ownership  actual  or  to  come.  But 
after  she  had  regarded  them  a  few  seconds,  ab- 
stractedly, almost  listlessly,  Courtenay  being  too 
gentle,  and  perhaps  too  confident,  to  interrupt  her, 
she  awoke,  as  it  were,  with  a  start,  to  the  realiza- 
tion that  the  two  realms  were  clamoring  for  a  de- 
cision from  her,  and  she  deliberated  a  little  more 
regarding  them.  To  enter  one,  would  be  to  con- 
done a  horrid  wrong  and  to  do  a  grievous  injustice. 
That  one  was  closed.  But  oh,  how  fair  it  seemed  ! 
How  much  of  the  pain  there,  was  birth-throes  of 
mind  and  character  !  All  the  heights  were  there, 
and  over  them,  all  the  stars.  The  other  was  a  flat 
noonday  land,  with  farms  and  factories  and  schools 
and  hospitals  and  work  and  stupid  peace. 

Then  over  it  all,  a  quick  cloud  came  and  a  thun- 
derbolt fell :  one  was  Muriel's  land,  and  the  other 


Somebody's  else!  Sh£  did  riot  cafe  if  it  was  (Jdd'sj 
she  would  not  enter  it.  She  could  not  enter  Mil* 
riel's,  but  she  could  remain  a  denizen  of  nowhere, 
if  she  must,  and  beat  the  universal  air  with  tired 
wings  all  her  days. 

She  turned  to  Courtenay.  His  face  had  become 
anxious  now,  pleading,  and  almost  pathetic. 

"  No,  my  kind  friend,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand 
"  It  is  not  always  given  to  read  God's  will  aright. 
Even  were  I  to  go  into  your  life,  I  should  spoil  it." 

"  Why  ?     How  ?"  he  exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

"  My  friend,  your  thoughts  are  not  my  thoughts, 
and  I  fear  that  even  your  enthusiasms,  noble  as 
they  are,  are  not  my  enthusiasms.  I  am  interested 
in  much  that  interests  you,  but  I  am  more  inter- 
ested in  things  which  do  not  interest  you.  More- 
over, the  things  which  interest  you  most,  are  not 
those  which  interest  me  too.  To  spend  part  of  our 
lives  together,  but  the  best  part  of  them  separate, 
would  be  to  wrong  the  best  part  of  them." 

"Why,  I  cannot  even  conceive  what  you  mean," 
he  answered. 

"  That  but  proves  me  right,"  she  said  with  an  al- 
most regretful  gentleness;  "  and  to  make  you  know 
what  I  mean,  would  bring  no  agreement,  and  might 
needlessly  pain  us  both." 

He  was  not  very  well-used  to  having  people 
reticent  with  him,  and  he  was  somewhat  used  to 
overcoming  what  he  called  "difficulties"  in  the 
opinions  of  others.  He  was  a  little  tempted  to 
essay  the  same  thing  here. 

"But,  Miss  Wahring,"  he  said,  "I  am  sure  that 
if  you  will  consider  these  difficulties  with  me,  they 


Court enatfs  Faith.  83 

will  disappear.  There  can  be  but  one  truth,  and 
surely  if  we  seek  it  together  we  should  find  it." 

"  At  the  very  outset,  Mr.  Courtenay,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  we  could  agree  on  the  ways  of  seeking  it." 

This  answer  went  a  little  deeper  than  he  was 
used  to,  and  he  fell  back  on  the  remedy  universal 
among  doctors  of  the  soul,  as  well  as  among  doctors 
of  the  body,  when  the  danger  is  not  pressing — time: 

"  In  time  you  will  consent  to  discuss  the  subject. 
You  live  with  people  who,  much  as  I  honor  some 
of  them,  are  apt  to  confuse  your  leadings.  Other- 
wise it  would  all  be  as  plain  to  you  as  to  me.  I 
will  say  good-bye  now,  but  I  hope  you  will  not  find 
it  disagreeable  to  see  me  in  future." 

"  Not  unless  you  make  it  so,"  she  said  with  a 
faint  smile,  giving  him  her  hand.  "  I  am  sorry 
to  have  had  to — "  she  was  going  to  say  "pain  you," 
but  something  in  his  confident  air  prevented,  and 
she  substituted  "disagree  with  you." 

"  Oh,  my  faith  is  strong !" 

He  said  it  kindly  and  modestly,  not  aggressively. 

And  as  he  went,  she  pondered:  "  His  faith  is 
strong.  Ah  me,  I  fear  I'm  only  a  woman  !  How 
stupid  men  are !  It  would  have  made  no  differ- 
ence though.  He's  so  good  and  gentle  !  I  hate  to 
hurt  him  !  But — but — but  it  ought  to  hurt  him  a 
little  more  !"  And  she  laughed.  Then  she  pon- 
dered and  grew  very  serious,  and  said  aloud  :  "  I 
could  not  depend  upon  him." 

A  moment  later,  she  asked  herself,  thinking  of 
Muriel,  "  Could  I — could  one,  depend  upon  him  f" 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE    MORAL    ORDER. 

MARY  COURTENAY'S  story  was  followed  before 
many  days  by  Nina's  meeting  Mary  herself.  The 
two  women  became  friends  at  once,  all  the  more 
readily  because  Mary  had  been  through  much  of 
the  spiritual  experience  that  Nina  was  now  under- 
going. But  their  sympathy  in  this  regard  was 
felt,  rather  than  expressed,  and  when  expressed 
was  confined  to  incidental  remark,  because  Nina 
feared  to  arouse  painful  reminiscences  in  Mary,  and 
Mary  no  longer  morbidly  sought  them. 

Nina's  mind  was  very  full,  however,  of  Mary's 
cruel  history,  and  also  reverted  not  seldom  to  the 
disappointment  she  had  had  to  inflict  on  Mary's 
brother.  These  thoughts,  added  to  those  for  which 
her  own  life  was  giving  her  abundant  occasion, 
soon  made  her  very  conscious  of  a  need  not  yet 
met  in  Calmire's  efforts  to  prop  up  her  faith. 

One  rainy  evening  Mrs.  Wahring  had  left  them 
alone  by  the  library  fire,  when  Nina  broke  a  little 
congenial  silence  with  :  , 

"  I've  often  thought  lately  about  your  quoting, 
once  when  we  were  all  out  in  a  shower,  that 
the  rain  falls  alike  on  the  just  and  the  unjust, 
and  you  added  that  lightning  is  no  more  apt  to 
strike  a  bad  man  than  a  good  one,  and  made  fun 
about  your  being  as  safe  as  anybody,  I  know 

84 


The  Moral  Order.  85 

myself  that  wrong-doing  often  hurts  the  victim 
more  than  it  hurts  the  wrong-doer,  and  often 
hurts  the  innocent  outsider  as  much  as  it  hurts 
the  people  directly  concerned.  Now  in  all  this 
jumble,  I  can't  yet  keep  up  any  steady  faith  in 
right  and  wrong  and  in  a  moral  order,  without  a 
God  to  say  what  is  right  and  wrong,  and  to  punish 
wrong  if  not  here,  hereafter." 

Calmire  answered  :  "  There  is  a  God,  if  you  pre- 
fer that  name,  to  'say  what  is  right  and  wrong,' 
and  to  reward  right  and  punish  wrong.  But  those 
things  are  not  perfectly  done,  any  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  this  world  is.  Your  trouble  is  an  old, 
old  fallacy,  lots  of  anthropomorphism  is  built  on  it 
— because  the  natural  course  of  things  is  not  perfect 
as  concerns  morality,  you're  disposed  to  shut  your 
eyes  to  the  fact  that  it  nevertheless  does  conserve 
morality,  as  far  as  morality  is  conserved  at  all. 
Of  course  the  world  is  not  evolved  up  to  ideal  mo- 
rality, but  it  has  got  as  far  as  passably  good  work- 
ing-morality, and  is  constantly  improving." 

"  But,"  Nina  objected,  "  '  the  rain  falls  alike  on 
the  just  and  the  unjust'  still." 

"  Yes;  but  there  are  not  so  many  unjust  for  it  to 
fall  upon." 

"  But  Nature  is  blind — the  power  behind  it  is 
blind!"  said  Nina,  mournfully. 

"  We're  getting  into  terribly  deep  water,"  said 
Calmire,  "but  it  won't  do  to  forget  two  things — 
the  first  is,  that  rain  and  lightning  don't  include 
the  whole  question." 

"  Yes,    I've    thought    about    that,"   said    Nina. 


86  The  Moral  Order. 

"After  all  that  rain  and  lightning  do,  doesn't  the 
moral  man  get  along  better  than  the  immoral  one  ?" 

"Yes,  take  it  all  in  all,  though  to  the  superficial 
glance,  he  doesn't  always  seem  to.  But  it's  really 
a  truism  to  say  that  he  does,  because  when  you 
come  to  boil  it  down,  morality  is  but  a  term 
for  the  conduct  which  experience  has  found,  in 
the  long-run,  in  closest  conformity  with  Nature's 
laws,  and  therefore  that  which  we  get  along 
best  on.  Those  laws,  imperfectly  as  they  have  yet 
got  our  planet  evolved,  generally  catch  the  vio- 
lator of  them  pretty  promptly,  whether  observers 
realize  that  he  is  in  their  grip  or  not.  I  often  think 
of  what  an  eminent  artist  told  me  after  painting 
the  portrait  of  one  of  the  richest  men  of  our  time, 
who  had  made  his  money  dishonestly,  but  had  all 
the  externals  of  happiness.  The  artist  said  that  in 
studying  the  man's  face,  he  had  found  more  misery 
in  it  than  in  any  other  that  he  ever  saw." 

"  That's  very  interesting,"  said  Nina.  "  I  won- 
der if  he  finds  as  much  happiness  in  the  moral 
faces !" 

"  I  don't  remember  certainly,"  said  Calmire, 
:<  but  I  have  an  impression  that  he  said  he  did;  but 
such  an  impression  would  be  very  natural  from  the 
experience  of  all  of  us." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  Nina  assented.  "A  man 
can't  escape  his  sin,  after  all, — or  his  virtue." 

"  There  you  go  again  !"  said  Calmire,  smiling. 
;'  You  persist  in  asserting  half  the  time,  though 
you  deny  it  the  other  half,  that  the  adjustments 
are  perfect.  The  fact  is,  that  many  a  graceless  dog 
and  many  a  saint  both  escape  their  deserts," 


The  Moral  Order.  87 

"Yes,  so  they  do!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  most 
people  get  them,  after  all.  But  what  is  the  other 
point  you  want  me  to  bear  in  mind  ?" 

"That  beyond  the  graceless  dog  and  the  saint, 
though  including  them — taking  the  Universe  at 
large,  morality  can't  be  escaped,  unless  by  acci- 
dent. It  is  a  fundamental  condition  of  all  things 
and  of  all  law — as  much  as  gravitation  is." 

"Why,  that's  awfully  strange  and  interesting!" 
exclaimed  Nina.  "  I  supposed  that  morality  only 
had  to  do  with  man,  and  pretty  civilized  man  at 
that.  Tell  me  more  of  it,  please." 

"Well,"  Calmire  went  on,  "you're  ready  to  say 
'  good  man  '  and  '  bad  man,'  aren't  you  ?" 

"Certainly!     Why?" 

"Never  mind  why,  just  yet.  And  you'll  say 
'  good  dog '  and  '  bad  dog,'  won't  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  '  good  fish  '  and  '  bad  fish'  ? " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  the  goodness  or  bad- 
ness of  a  fish.  I  can't  conceive  a  fish  having  much 
moral  character." 

"  The  '  much  'ness  of  it  is  not  what  I'm  after," 
said  Calmire.  "  Have  you  ever  heard  of  a  whale 
(though  he  isn't  a  fish,  by  the  way,  but  he'll  do) — 
of  a  whale  in  a  rage — stubborn  and  unreason- 
able, when  all  that  gentlemen  required  of  him 
was  to  be  killed  in  an  amiable  and  accommo- 
dating spirit  ?" 

"Yes,"  Nina  admitted.  "And  I  suppose  the 
carp  at  Versailles  who  used  to  feed  from  the  king's 
hand,  had  their  willing  days  and  their  sulky  days, 
and  were  called  'good'  or  'bad.'" 


88  The  Moral  Order. 

"  Unquestionably,"  assented  Calmire.  "  And 
now  don't  be  very  critical  just  yet,  but  answer  my 
questions  simply.  As  to  fish:  you  would  say 
i  good  hook  '  or  '  bad  hook,'  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  '  good  steel '  or  '  bad  steel '  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  And,  as  to  the  components  of  the  steel,  '  good 
iron  '  and  '  bad  iron  '  or  '  good  carbon  '  and  '  bad 
carbon  '  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  could  go  on  to  say  '  good  '  or  '  bad  ' 
carbonic  acid  gas,  or  hydrogen  or  oxygen,  or  any- 
thing else?" 

"  Certainly,  but — " 

"Never  mind  the  '  buts  '  just  now,  we'll  take 
care  of  them  later.  Now  I  want  you  to  see  what 
quality  all  these  things,  from  gases  up  to  man, 
have  in  common,  that  makes  you  willing  to  apply 
the  terms  good  and  bad  to  them  all." 

"  I  shouldn't  say  '  from  gases  up,'  "  responded 
Nina,  "  but  from  man  down.  I  suspect  we  apply 
the  terms  good  and  bad  to  the  lower  things  only 
metaphorically,  and  that  their  true  application  is 
only  to  a  moral  being." 

"Oh  what  a  Nina  you're  getting  to  be!"  ex- 
claimed Calmire,  approvingly.  "  But,  my  bright 
girl,  you're  wrong  all  the  same,  unless  you're 
ready  to  contend  that  the  first  grunt  of  approval 
from  which  our  word  good  is  descended,  was 
aroused  by  some  companion  of  the  creature  who 
gave  it,  rather  than  by  its  food,  or  a  soothing  ray 


The  Moral  Order.  89 

of  sunshine,  or  some  other  contribution  to  its 
creature-comfort." 

"  Wait !"  cried  Nina.  "  That's  too  much  all  at 
once,  make  it  easier,  please." 

"Well,  that  grunt  meant  'good,'  didn't  it? 
Now  do  you  suppose  it  was  first  applied  to  an- 
other animal,  or  to  something  to  eat  ?  If  the  latter, 
its  later  use  toward  man  was  metaphorical  from  its 
first  use  toward  the  food :  and  even  if  the  former,  its 
application  to  man  grew  upward  from  the  beast." 

"It  wasn't  a  grunt  at  all,"  said  Nina,  "but  a 
bird's  song!" 

"  Ah,  my  sweet  little  poet,  the  facts  are  too 
plain!  The  bird  was  evolved  long  after  that 
sound.  True,  we  can  hardly  corral  the  very 
first  grunt.  There  were  probably  a  good  many 
simultaneous  ones  for  very  different  reasons  and 
of  very  different  kinds,  some  of  them  not.  audible 
to  such  ears  as  ours.  But  what  did  all  those  that 
meant  approval  have  in  common  ?" 

"A  feeling  of  satisfaction,  I  suppose  you  mean," 
Nina  answered. 

"And  what  did  the  objects  which  called  them 
forth,  have  in  common  ?"  asked  Calmire. 

"Why,  the  capacity  to  arouse  feelings  of  satis- 
faction, of  course,"  responded  Nina.  "  But  you're 
not  going  to  claim  that  that's  a  moral  quality  : 
why!  the  objects  of  men's  vices — the  very  act  of 
murder,  have  that." 

"Good  for  you,  my  child!"  exclaimed  Calmire. 
"  But  don't  go  too  fast:  remember  that  a  thing  may 
be  good  or  bad  for  a  thousand  reasons.  Brutus 
thought  Caesar's  murder  good:  Caesar,  so  far  as  he 


go  The  Moral  Order. 

had  a  chance,  undoubtedly  thought  it  bad.  But 
take  a  simpler  case:  one  glass  of  brandy  is  taken 
to  produce  inebriety,  another  is  taken  to  save  life; 
the  toper  says:  'The  brandy  is  "good"  to  make 
me  drunk,'  and  the  invalid  says:  '  The  brandy  is 
"  good "  to  make  me  well.'  Now,  as  you  said 
before,  they  are  both  'good*  to  produce  feelings 
of  satisfaction,  but  what  is  the  difference  in  the 
feelings  of  satisfaction  here,  that  makes  one  im- 
moral and  the  other  moral  ?" 

"Why,  one's  bad  and  the  other's  good!" 

"  But  why  is  one  bad  and  the  other  good  ?"  Cal- 
mire  asked. 

"  Why,  in  the  long-run  one  does  harm  and  the 
other  does  good,"  Nina  answered. 

"Don't  use,  in  an  explanation,  the  term  that 
needs  explaining.  Think  and  try  again." 

"  Oh,  I'm  too  stupid!"  exclaimed  Nina.  "  Won't 
you  help  me  out?" 

"  No,  you're  not  stupid,  but  you  poor  girls  don't 
get  any  training.  Now  is  one  bad  because  it 
tends  in  the  long-run  to  lessen  the  man's  happi- 
ness and  that  of  others;  and  the  other,  good  because 
it  tends  to  increase  the  man's  happiness  and  that 
of  his  friends  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well  now  is  happiness — ?  But  I  won't  ask  hard 
questions  any  more  just  now.  We've  got  back 
to  the  standard  test  of  morality — effect  upon  the 
aggregate  happiness.  But  weren't  there  good  iron 
and  good  oxygen  on  the  planet  before  there  was 
any  happiness  to  be  affected  by  them  ?" 

"  Certainly." 


The  Moral  Order,  91 

"  Why  do  we  call  them  good  ?  But  I'm  question- 
ing you  again." 

"  Never  mind !"  said  Nina.  "  That's  plain 
enough.  It's  because  they  had  in  them  the  possi- 
bility of  contributing  to  happiness." 

"Well  now,  hasn't  everything?"  asked  Calmire. 

"  Why,  where  would  evil  come  from,  then  ?"  asked 
Nina  in  return. 

"  Simply  from  misuse  of  the  good  things.  Let's 
take  a  string  of  'horrible  examples' — suppose, 
for  instance,  that  a  rat  eats  a  wounded  hum- 
ming-bird ;  a  rattlesnake  kills  a  man  ;  a  disap- 
pointed office-seeker  shoots  a  patriot  :  don't  you 
think  of  anything  not  unmitigatedly  bad  in  those 
cases  ?" 

"  I  see,"  Nina  replied,  "  that  although  the  hum- 
ming-bird was  a  finer  thing  than  the  rat,  the  rat's 
appetite  was  a  good  thing  for  himself." 

"And  wouldn't  it  have  been  a  good  thing  for 
everybody,"  asked  Calmire,  "if  he  had  only  eaten 
as  he  usually  does,  matter  that  might  otherwise  be- 
come offensive?  So  after  all,  wasn't  his  eating  the 
humming-bird,  merely  a  misuse  of  the  good  ?  Now 
how  about  the  politician  shooting  the  patriot?" 

"I  can't  find  any  good  at  all  there,"  Nina  an- 
swered. 

"  It  probably  took  some  courage,  and  skill  with 
his  weapon,  didn't  it?"  asked  Calmire. 

"  Yes,  but  the  motives  directing  them  were 
wholly  bad." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  suspect  that,  at  the 
bottom,  they  were  motives  of  self-preservation — 
and  a  desire  to  support  his  fam.ly,  and  a  rage  at 


92  The  Moral  Order. 

anybody  trying  to  keep  him  out  of  a  place,  like 
that  of  a  tigress  at  seeing  her  cubs'  meat  interfered 
with." 

"  It  does  look  like  it,"  said  Nina.  "  What's  the 
key  ?" 

"  Simply  deficiency  of  other  good  motives  to  re- 
strict the  rat  and  the  rattlesnake  to  victims  inferior 
to  themselves,  and  the  politician  to  less  objection- 
able methods;  and,  too,  deficiency  of  ingenuity  to 
devise  such  methods.  It's  our  deficiencies  that 
cause  our  evils — all  the  powers  that  we  really  have 
are  intrinsically  good,  only  we  have  not  enough  to 
keep  action  always  in  a  good  direction.  Death  it- 
self is  only  a  lack  of  powers  :  it  is  not  a  positive 
thing.  Yet,  the  world  over,  they've  regarded  it  as 
a  positive  thing,  and  got  up  angels  or  devils,  to 
produce  it,  when  after  all  it's  only  life  that  can  be 
produced.  Death  is  merely  the  absence  of  it." 

"  But  evil  is  here  all  the  same,  Mr.  Calmire,  and 
inasmuch  as  it  is  here,  what  difference  does  it  make 
how  it  got  here— as  you  said  about  our  worthy 
selves,  some  time  ago,  when  you  were  talking  of 
Darwinism  ?" 

"  All  the  difference  in  the  world  :  because  how  it 
got  here  determines  how  it's  going  to  get  away 
from  here.  If  evil  is  only  a  bad  adjustment  of 
good  things — such  as  the  bad  adjustment  of  your 
good  needle  to  your  good  fingers  when  you  prick 
them — we  know  how  to  improve  your  adjustments 
and  decrease  the  evil.  We  don't  attempt  it  any 
longer  with  incantations,  relics,  and  holy  water; 
nor  do  we  need  to  pester  ourselves  over  the  old 
questions  of  how  God  can  have  all  the  power  there 


The  Moral  Order.  93 

is,  and  yet  the  devil  have  nearly  as  much,  and  why 
God  doesn't  kill  the  devil." 

"  But,"  expostulated  Nina,  after  a  moment, 
"  however  we  try  to  decrease  the  evil,  we  can't 
restrict  all  animals  to  vegetable  food.  Some  crea- 
tures have  always  got  to  be  killed  to  feed  others." 

"  Quite  probably,  until  the  others  stop  being 
fed — until,  in  short,  dissolution  is  well  under  way: 
but  that  doesn't  concern  us  very  closely.  I  didn't 
say,  however,  that  evil  would  ever  disappear  from 
the  planet  entirely — at  least  until  good  does  :  as 
long  as  there's  anything  going,  I  suppose  it  will 
sometimes  get  out  of  order  :  I  only  said  that  we 
can  make  evil  constantly  decrease:  creatures  that 
live  by  the  destruction  of  others,  are  being  hunted 
off  the  earth  themselves." 

"But,"  said  Nina,  "a  partiality  for  game-pie  is 
not  yet  set  down  among  the  capital  offences." 

"  No,  and  I  don't  say  that  it's  going  to  be.  I  do 
say,  though,  that  your  ancestors,  before  they  be- 
came tillers  of  the  soil,  lived  on  other  animals  to  a 
vastly  greater  extent  than  you  do;  and  I  do  say  that 
the  modern  states  pay  bounties  for  the  destruction 
of  dangerous  creatures." 

"Then,"  said  Nina,  "  the  evil  days  of  the  snakes 
and  tigers  have  come." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Calmire,  "  but  they  are  more 
than  proportionally  better  days  for  better  crea- 
tures. Don't  think,  though,  from  anything  I've 
said,  that  I  set  this  up  for  a  perfect  world — now  or 
prospectively.  It's  an  imperfect  world — a  very 
imperfect  one  I  suppose,  though  I  don't  know 
where  anybody  venturing  on  that  statement,  has 


94  The  Moral  Order. 

found  his  standard  of  a  better  one:  but  imperfect 
as  it  is,  it's  not  a  positively  evil  world;  but  only 
negatively  evil — good  can  be  permanently  ad- 
vanced in  it,  and  evil  can't.  Everything,  prop- 
erly used,  can  do  more  good  than  harm.  In  other 
words,  the  proper  use  of  anything  is  moral :  and 
here  we  are  back  to  the  subject  we  started  with: 
for  as  every  act  uses  something,  so  every  act  is 
moral  or  immoral." 

"But  Mr.  Calmire!"  objected  Nina.  "  There  are 
a  great  many  acts,  we  never  think  of  calling  moral 
or  immoral." 

"  Yes,  my  child.  In  most  cases  the  moral  quality 
is  so  nearly  balanced  or  so  slight  that  we  don't 
notice  it — sometimes  we  even  mistake  it,  but 
it's  there  all  the  same,  and  we  can't  escape  it. 
Every  possible  act  of  man  or  process  of  nature, 
is  legitimately  open  to  the  question  whether 
it  tends  in  the  long-run  to  increase  or  diminish 
the  happiness  in  the  Universe.  On  that  fact, 
man's  moral  nature  rests  :  his  conduct  inevitably 
must  be  shaped  with  reference  to  it,  and  always 
has  been.  So  has  the  conduct  of  every  other 
creature  capable  of  conduct,  of  course  at  first  very 
blindly  and  in  very  few  particulars,  but  gradually 
increasing  in  complexity.  Our  old  friend  the  jelly- 
fish was  moral,  as  far  as  he  went,  in  seeking  the 
light  places — and  would  have  been  immoral  to 
stay  in  the  dark  ones  where  food  was  scarce,  and 
where  colds  were  to  be  caught,  assuming  him  sub- 
ject to  that  disorder.  The  beaver  is  moral  in 
making  his  dam,  and  a  beaver  who  won't  work  at 
it,  is  an  immoral  and  reprehensible  little  beast.  A 


The  Moral  Order.  95 

squirrel  who  lays  up  a  store  of  nuts  for  himself 
and  his  family,  is  as  moral,  in  that  particular,  as 
a  man  who  does  a  similar  thing,  and  a  squirrel 
who  does  not,  deserves  to  go  to  the  poor-house. 
Bees  and  ants  are  cited  as  moral  examples  by  the 
greatest  teachers.  In  short,  the  Universe,  or  our 
share  of  it,  is  so  ordered  that  creatures  must  be 
moral  to  a  certain  extent  or  die. 

"  But  the  higher  moralities  flow  just  as  inevitably 
from  the  operations  of  the  Universal  Law.  Food, 
shelter,  defence,  are  necessary.  They  can  be  had 
better  by  cooperation  than  by  solitary  effort  or  by 
mutual  pillage.  The  law  that  makes  it  to  the 
advantage  of  the  beavers  and  ants  and  bees  and 
even  wolves  and  jackals  and  elephants  to  help 
each  other,  is  the  same  law  that,  in  a  higher  evo- 
lution, makes  it  to  the  advantage  of  men  to  help 
each  other.  Human  society  is  but  these  lower 
societies  evolved — patriotism,  philanthropy,  altru- 
ism are  but  the  evolution  of  the  social  virtues  that 
we  see  starting  in  the  lower  creatures.  To  make  the 
higher  society  possible,  children  must  be  educated 
in  the  family,  and  the  family,  conjugal  fidelity,  the 
lofty  ideals  of  love,  all  have  their  sources  in  the  de- 
mands of  the  higher  social  evolution.  Patriotism 
and  the  civic  virtues  follow  in  here,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  In  short,  looking  over  the  whole  field  of 
conduct,  it  grades  insensibly  from  the  lowest  act  of 
self-preservation  up  to  the  highest  act  for  the  ame- 
lioration of  the  race.  You  can't  draw  the  line  any- 
where between  the  jelly-fish  seeking  the  light  places, 
and  Washington  devoting  himself  to  liberty.  Thus 
moralitv.  in  its  various  forms,  has  grown  up  inevi- 


g6  The  Moral  Order. 

tably  in  the  universal  system  of  things,  as  stars 
and  planets,  and  all  the  forms  of  life,  have  grown." 

"  Then  do  you  think,"  asked  Nina,  "  that  morality 
is  on  the  other  planets  just  as  it  is  on  ours?" 

"  Not  exactly  as  it  is  on  ours,  that  can't  be,  but 
morality  must  be,  in  some  degree,  everywhere. 
Let's  look  into  it  a  moment,  for  your  view  can't 
be  too  broad.  We  know  that  the  other  bodies 
floating  in  space,  are  under  the  conditions  of 
time,  space,  matter,  and  force,  just  as  we  are.  We 
know  that  they  contain  many  of  the  same  chem- 
ical elements  that  our  planet  does.  We  know  it 
absolutely,  only  of  some  of  the  suns:  but  the 
planets  are  pieces  of  the  suns.  We  know,  de- 
ductively, that  all  those  spheres  have  been  evolved 
from  some  comparatively  homogeneous  form  of 
matter,  as  ours  has — in  short,  we  know  that  they 
are  subject  to  the  law  of  evolution.  To  assume 
that  they  all  are  not  inhabited  by  sentient  beings, 
is  harder  than  to  assume  that  some  of  them  are; 
and,  under  the  law  of  evolution  and  dissolution, 
those  beings  have  got  to  die  and  others  be  pro- 
duced to  take  their  places.  Now  we  are  not  apt 
to  think  of  morality  as  coming  in  before  the  human 
family,  but  there  are  very  decided  and  very  beau- 
tiful moralities  in  the  conjugal  and  parental  rela- 
tions of  many  of  the  lower  creatures.  There,  you 
have  the  elements  of  moral  evolution;  and  the 
evolution  is  recognizable  as  soon  as  there  comes  a 
subordination  of  the  present  to  the  future,  a  devo- 
tion of  parents  to  children,  and  some  sort  of  public 
opinion  and  regulation.  These  may  not  be  higher 
than  they  are  in  a  band  of  coyotes,  but  they  are 


The  Moral  Order,  97 

morality,  all  the  same.  And,  you  know  that,  going 
way  below  family  relations,  the  lowest  animals  and 
even  the  vegetables  must  have  some  capacity  of 
adaptation  to  their  futures  and  to  each  other's 
existences.  In  fact,  the  laws  which  make  a 
stone  on  the  hillside  roll  when  the  stone  propping 
it  is  removed,  and  continue  to  roll  until  other  stones 
are  interposed,  and  to  stop  when  they  are  inter- 
posed, are  not  only  mere  physical  laws,  but  are  also 
laws  adapting  the  stone  to  the  other  stones  around 
it.  But  bless  me!"  he  broke  off,  "this  is  getting 
awfully  long-winded.  But  I'm  coming  outat  some- 
thing. Do  you  think  you  can  live  through  it  ?" 

"  Try  me,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  as  there  is  that  side  to 
the  laws  which  regulate  the  stone,  I  don't  know- 
that  we  can  deny  the  germs  of  morality  to  the 
stone,  although,  of  course,  we  do  not  ordinarily 
dissociate  them  from  consciousness'.  Now  to  carry 
it  even  a  step  farther  back,  I  don't  see  but  what 
the  germs  of  morality  must  have  been  in  the  simple 
star-dust  that  first  began  to  whirl  into  suns.  Cer- 
tainly, to  deny  to  the  star-dust  the  germs  of  moral- 
ity, would  be  to  deny  the  law  of  evolution — to  say 
that,  later,  the  germs  of  morality  had  been  created, 
and  that  is  something  that,  despite  Genesis,  we 
simply  can't  conceive.  Morality  must  have  been 
evolved,  with  everything  else.  The  whole  universe, 
then,  must  always  have  been  moral,  though  in  a 
rather  small  way  here  and  there,  especially  between 
evolutions  of  systems.  Of  course,  now,  we  don't 
call  any  of  the  functions  of  inanimate  matter, 
morality,  any  more  than  we  call  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  of  inanimate  matter,  a  man.  But 


98  The  Moral  Order. 

the  man  is  evolved  out  of  the  inanimate  mat- 
ter all  the  same,  and  so  must  the  morality  be 
evolved  from  its  corresponding  primitive  con- 
ditions. The  conditions  for  both  the  man  and 
the  morality  are  in  the  inanimate  matter  and 
the  primitive  law.  Well,  then,  it  seems  pretty 
plain  that  morality  is,  potentially  at  least,  through- 
out the  universe,  just  as  matter  is,  and  must  appear 
in  corresponding  degree  wherever  evolution  sets 
in.  The  claim,  then,  that  any  man  or  set  of  men 
have  brought  it  on  earth,  or  that  it  depends  upon 
the  system  of  any  lawgiver,  is  absurdly  belittling. 
Its  sources  are  wide  and  remote  in  the  very  foun- 
dations of  the  universe.  The  claim  that  the  fading 
away  of  any  categorical  system  of  it,  is  going  to 
remove  it  from  among  men,  is  of  course  equally 
belittling.  Hundreds  of  its  codes  have  risen  and 
fallen,  but  it  has  remained  and  increased;  and  for 
all  I  can  see,  despite  the  impression  of  many  that  our 
immediate  traditional  religion  is  losing  its  hold, 
morality  was  never  as  high  among  us  as  it  is  to-day. 
And  moreover,  I  don't  know  any  good  reason  for 
supposing  that  the  morality  of  spheres  whose  evo- 
lution is  older  or  faster  than  ours,  may  not  be  as 
far  in  advance  of  ours,  as  ours  is  of  the  coyote's." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you've  been  doing  for  me?" 
asked  Nina, — "better  even  than  saving  my  life?" 

"  I  know  what  I've  been  trying  to  do.  I've  been 
trying  again  my  old,  old  task,  of  showing  you  that 
anthropomorphism  belittles  the  Source  of  all  things 
— of  morality  with  the  rest;  and  that  all  the  ideas 
we  most  value — -now  the  idea  of  morality,  as  before, 
the  idea  of  a  God  and  of  a  spiritual  world — rest  on 
foundations  broader  and  deeper  than  any  that  hu- 


The  Moral  Order.  99 

man  attributes  can  express.  Now  you  can  judge 
for  yourself  whether  you  would  rather  have  your 
morality  on  this  basis — that  all  our  talks  have  been 
leading  up  to,  or  on  the  command  of  an  anthro- 
pomorphic God.  You  see  that  it  does  make  a  dif- 
ference, even  in  every-day  morality,  whether  one 
believes  in  a  Universe  of  infinite  Order  under  the 
control  of  Law — a  Kosmos,  or  in  a  Chaos  with 
order  depending  on  the  whims  of  some  arbitrary, 
vacillating,  even  revengeful  creature  like  a  man." 

"  I  see  it  now  and  feel  it,"  said  Nina,  "just  as  you 
want  me  to,  and  just  as  I  want  to  myself.  But  I 
know  that  my  realization  of  it  is  going  to  grow 
weak  again." 

"  Why  bless  me!"  exclaimed  Calmire.  "  Haven't 
all  the  saints  in  the  calendar  always  prayed  for  the 
strengthening  of  their  faith  ?  And  though  they 
did  not  have  a  chance  at  modern  views  of  things, 
some  of  them  were  tremendously  strong  men. 
Don't  expect  more  from  yourself  than  they  were 
able  to  reach." 

"  Yes  !  But  our  faiths  are  on  broader  and  surer 
foundations  than  theirs,  and  ought  to  be  firm." 

"  But  yours  are  assailed  by  foes  that  theirs  were 
not,"  said  Calmire.  "Comparatively  few  of  them 
had  to  make  such  a  transition  as  you  are  mak- 
ing. But  you'll  be  helped  if  you  try  always  to 
realize  this :  Morality  is  not  narrowed  to  any 
one  doctrine  or  system.  All  law  is  moral:  so 
much  of  it  as  we  succeed  in  learning,  it  is  moral  to 
follow." 

"  And  all  this,"  said  Nina  to  herself,  "  is  not  so 
different  from  what  Muriel  told  me." 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

MISERY    MAKES    STRANGE    BEDFELLOWS. 

OF  the  various  unhappy  people  with  whom  this 
narrative  is  concerned,  certainly  not  the  least  un- 
happy at  this  stage  of  their  experiences,  was  Minerva 
Granzine.  The  strain  was  beginning  to  tell  upon 
even  her  health.  Dark  hollows  were  appearing 
around  her  gazelle-like  eyes,  and  her  springing 
step  was  becoming  heavy.  Strange  as  it  may 
appear,  part  of  that  strain  was  an  honest  sense  of 
shame.  Such  a  sense  is  not  inconsistent  with  many 
an  impulse  which  leads  to  occasions  for  it:  both  can 
be  fervid  in  a  fervid  temperament :  the  only  ques- 
tion is  :  which  is  the  more  fervid.  Minerva's 
mother,  while  in  some  ways  kind  and  forbearing,  was 
possessed  by  a  burning  ambition,  more  destructive, 
if  possible,  to  the  peace  of  all  the  household,  than  any 
passive  lugubriousness,  or  even  any  bursts  of  temper, 
could  have  been.  The  idea  of  marrying  her  daughter 
to  Muriel  Calmire  had  become  a  monomania  that 
would  have  lasted  even  if  the  shame  had  been 
entirely  out  of  the  way.  Despite  her  impotent 
threats  to  Calmire,  she  still  hoped  to  cover  the 
matter  up,  feeling  that  she  had  risked  no  farther 
exposure  in  forcing  her  secret  on  Nina  Wahring. 
Such  was  her  state  of  mind,  however,  that  in  any 
way  to  remind  her  of  the  subject,  even  by  the  mute 

100 


Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows.         ioi 

appeals  for  sympathy  so  natural  to  her  unhappy 
daughter,  was  to  start  her  on  a  tirade  of  conject- 
ures, fears,  hopes,  and  abuse  of  Muriel  and  all  his 
race,  which  even  Minerva's  rudimentary  conscience 
was  sometimes  stirred  into  feeling  excessive. 

The  state  of  affairs  in  the  Granzine  house  was  so 
far  known  only  to  the  mother  and  daughter.  The 
elder  woman's  strange,  strong  character  was  supe- 
rior, or  perhaps  inferior,  to  any  irrepressible  crav- 
ing for  sympathy  or  counsel  even  from  her  hus- 
band. His  relation  to  his  wife  and  ostensible 
daughter,  which  Calmire  and  Clint  Russell  knew, 
illustrated  the  weakness  of  his  fibre.  The  wife 
did  not  care  even  to  lay  her  own  burden  upon  it, 
much  less  to  admit  it  to  a  share  in  the  responsi- 
bility of  supporting  her  ambitions  against  the  house 
of  Calmire.  The  time  might  come  when  she  would 
have  to;  but  should  the  secret  once  be  opened  to 
the  public,  there  would  then  be,  even  to  Granzine's 
timid  nature,  less  temptation  for  retreat. 

Minerva,  then,  was  worse  than  alone  in  her 
misery.  At  least  she  would  have  been,  but  for  one 
strange  string  of  circumstances.  Living  in  a  little 
cottage  behind  a  wood  passed  by  a  by-road,  some 
four  miles  Northwest  of  the  Granzines',  was  a 
girl  named  Huldah  Cronin,  who,  a  year  and  a 
half  before,  on  taking  her  wages  one  Saturday 
evening  at  one  of  the  mills,  had  said  to  the 
cashier:  "I  shall  not  be  back  Monday,  Mr.  Blake- 
man.  You  may  as  well  take  my  name  off  the 
roll."  On  her  way  to  her  boarding-house,  she  had 
surprised  a  flashy  friend  of  hers  at  Botts's  livery- 
stable,  by  requesting  him  to  send  a  carriage  for  her 


IO2         Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows. 

at  nine  o'clock.  When  the  carriage  came,  she 
asked  the  driver  to  go  to  her  room  and  take  her 
trunk  and  bag,  and  while  he  was  performing  that 
operation,  she  called  the  landlady  into  the  hall  and 
said:  "Mrs.  Orange,  I  want  to  bid  you  good-bye. 
You  are  entitled  to  a  week's  notice  before  I  leave 
my  room;  I  prefer  to  pay  you  a  week's  rent  instead. 
You  have  always  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  thank 
you."  Then  she  passed  into  Mrs.  Orange's  hand, 
bills  which  represented  all  of  the  wages  she  was 
known  to  have  drawn  but  two  dollars,  which  she  sub- 
sequently gave  the  hackman;  and  without  waiting 
for  a  word  from  the  astonished  woman,  she  followed 
the  hackman  to  his  vehicle  and  was  driven  off  to 
the  cottage  where  she  had  lived  since.  From  that 
time,  she  had  never  been  in  the  town  of  Calmire  by 
daylight,  and  had  refused,  through  a  middle-aged 
negress,  to  see  two  or  three  of  her  old  cronies  who 
had  traced  her  to  her  retreat.  In  Minerva's  coun- 
try walks,  in  some  of  which  she  had  not  been  alone, 
she  had  occasionally  passed  Huldah  driving  in  a 
pony-carriage,  but  had  not,  apparently,  been  no- 
ticed by  her. 

One  moonlit  Saturday  evening,  soon  after  Muriel 
had  gone  away,  Minerva  was  walking  home 
from  the  early  choir  rehearsal  alone  and  rapt  in 
revery,  when,  not  far  from  her  own  home,  she  was 
aroused  by  hearing  her  name  spoken.  Beside  her 
at  the  curb,  was  standing  Huldah's  pony-carriage. 

"  Get  in  here,"  said  its  occupant. 

Minerva,  as  was  her  custom  when  commanded, 
obeyed. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  night,"  said  Huldah ;  "  we'll  have 
a  drive." 


Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows.          103 

"But,  Huldah,  what  makes  you  take  me?" 

"I'll  take  you  home  in  ten  minutes,  if  you  want 
me  to." 

"  But  you're  so  queer!"  exclaimed  Minerva. 

"  You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  myself  that  I 
don't  know,"  said  Huldah,  "  and  I  sha'n't  tell  you 
anything  that  you  don't  know:  so  neither  of  us 
will  make  much  out  of  that  subject,  and  we'd  better 
talk  of  some  other  one.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Minerva 
Granzine:  and  that's  all  I'm  going  to  say  on  thai 
subject:  so  we'll  have  to  take  up  another  one  still. 
Have  any  new  books  come  to  the  library  this 
week  ?  I  sent  for  some  Saturday,  and  they  were 
behindhand." 

"  But,"  exclaimed  Minerva,  startled,  and  with  her 
usual  flush,  "  why  do  you  say  you're  sorry  for  me  ?" 

"  Because  I  am." 

"  But  what  makes  you  so  ?" 

"  I've  watched  your  face.  That's  all  I  know,  and 
all  I  care  to  know.  Can  you  tell  me  about  the 
books  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes — that  is,  I  believe  mother 
said  this  morning  that  a  new  bundle  had  come." 

"  Do  you  read  much  now  ?"  asked  Huldah. 

"  I  never  did  very  much,  you  know,"  answered 
Minerva.  "  I  haven't  much  lately,  either." 

"  Your  mother  does,"  said  Huldah.  "  I  should 
think  she'd  make  you." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  She  doesn't  seem  to  care 
much  to  have  us  read  her  sort  of  books.  Johnny 
hates  "em." 

"  Queer  fellow,  that  Johnny  !"  Huldah  exclaimed. 
"There's  more  man  in  him  than  in  any  boy  in 
Calmire." 


io4         Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfelloivs. 

"  Yes!  He's  like  mother  in  some  ways,  but  he's 
soft  and  gentle  like  father  too.  Johnny  used  to 
think  a  great  deal  of  you." 

"  The  first  foolish  thing  I  ever  heard  about  him!" 
commented  Huldah.  "Do  you  sing  as  much  as 
ever  ?" 

And  so  the  talk  went  on,  gradually  getting  into 
a  natural  flow,  and  several  times  ten  minutes  had 
elapsed  before  Minerva's  strange  entertainer,  who 
had  made  the  poor  girl  nearer  happy  than  she  had 
been  for  many  days,  and  who  had  kept  out  of 
town  during  most  of  the  drive,  drew  up  on  a  side 
street  between  the  church  and  Minerva's  home, 
while  saying: 

"  Come  to  the  powder-house  field  beyond  Jim 
Miles's  Tuesday,  at  two,  and  I'll  give  you  another 
ride." 

"  Oh!  I'll  be  so  glad!     You're  very  good  to  me." 

Then  said  the  other: 

"  Good-bye.  I've  let  no  woman  kiss  me  for  two 
years,  but  you  may  as  well." 

And  Minerva  did  it,  and,  wondering,  went  home 
where  her  mother,  used  to  her  delays  with  her 
young  companions,  received  her  without  remark. 

On  the  Tuesday,  which  was  a  beautiful  day, 
Minerva,  not,  strange  to  say,  more  than  three 
minutes  behind  her  appointment,  met  Huldah, 
had  a  delightful  drive,  in  which  the  latter  neither 
asked  nor  told  anything  personal,  and  was  set 
down  near  four  o'clock  about  a  mile  from  home, 
at  an  intersection  with  the  main  road.  This  was 
repeated  the  next  Tuesday,  Huldah  always  fixing 
the  same  time.  On  that  occasion  Minerva,  feeling 


Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellozvs.         105 

nelped  by  the  drive  and  the  sympathy,  walked 
along  homeward  with  steps  more  light  and  care- 
less than  she  had  taken  for  many  a  day,  until, 
after  about  quarter  of  a  mile,  stepping  on  a  dis- 
placed board  over  a  culvert,  her  foot  slipped,  she 
felt  a  twinge  of  terrible  pain,  fell,  and  fainted. 

When  she  came  to,  she  felt  dazed,  but  soon  tried 
to  rise,  and  was  prevented  by  the  pain  in  her 
ankle.  Then  she  began  to  look  around  and  wonder 
who  might  come  to  help  her,  when  what  should 
appear  coming  from  town  but  two  prancing  horses 
in  a  victoria  with  two  men  on  the  box,  whom  she 
soon  recognized  as  in  the  liveries  of  Calmire. 

"  Not  that !  not  that !"  she  exclaimed  aloud. 
"  I  must  not  be  seen  lying  here  by  them  !" 

She  made  an  effort  to  rise,  that  would  have  done 
even  her  mother  credit,  fell  and  fainted  again. 

Her  eyes  opened  on  the  face  of  Nina  Wahring, 
who  was  bathing  Minerva's  forehead  with  a  hand- 
kerchief which  had  been  moistened  by  the  footman, 
in  the  rill  under  the  culvert. 

Minerva  uttered  a  faint  scream,  and  ejaculated: 
"My  God!      You?" 

Then  she  closed  her  eyes  again,  not  altogether 
in  weakness,  for  she  tried  to  cover  them  with  her 
hands. 

Nina,  infinitely  distressed,  was  for  a  moment 
dumb.  Then  she  said: 

"  You  must  be  much  hurt,  poor  child.  I  want  to 
help  you." 

"  Oh,  no  !  No  !  No  !"  cried  Minerva,  with  as 
much  force  as  could  well  be  left  in  a  woman  who 
had  just  fainted  twice. 


io6        Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows. 

By  this  time,  Nina  was  herself. 

"  Blossom,"  she  said  to  the  footman,  in  her  calm 
sweet  tones,  "  perhaps  you  and  Williams  had  better 
go  back  to  town  for  a  doctor."  But  as  soon  as  the 
man  was  at  a  safe  distance  on  the  box,  she  called 
out  to  him:  "  Stay  where  you  are  for  the  present. 
I  may  want  you  more  than  the  doctor." 

Then  she  bent  over  Minerva  and  said,  while  she 
gently  stroked  her  forehead:  "You  must  compose 
yourself  and  tell  me  quietly  what  it  is.  Did  you 
fall  ?" 

"  Yes." 

The  pain  made  the  answer  spontaneous,  but  she 
would  have  yielded,  as  usual,  without  it ;  and  she 
was  already  soothed  by  the  calm  spirit  beside  her. 

"Are  you  in  great  pain  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"  Oh,  yes.     It  throbs  fearfully." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  My  limb."  (Mrs.  Granzine's  elegances  had  not 
been  entirely  wasted  on  Minerva.) 

"Your  leg?     Which  one  ?" 

"  The  left.     Oh,  it  hurts  so  !  down  by  the  foot." 

"  Blossom,  bring  a  cushion,  and  put  it  under  her 
head,"  called  Nina.  "  Do  you  feel  too  faint  for  it  ?" 
she  asked,  turning  to  Minerva. 

"  No,  I  think  not.     How  good  you  are  !" 

The  transfer  was  tenderly  made.  Nina  got  Miner- 
va's handkerchief,  told  the  footman  to  wet  it  and 
any  he  and  the  coachman  might  have,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  take  a  look  at  the  injured  member.  The 
ankle  had  already  begun  to  swell,  and  a  touch  to 
it  was  agony. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  whether  to  cut  the  boot !"  mused 
Nina  aloud. 


Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows.          107 

"Oh  yes,  do  open  it!"  said  Minerva. 

"I  think  we'd  better  not,"  concluded  Nina.  "I 
think  we  ought  to  bandage  it  tightly.  The  cold 
water  will  prevent  its  hurting  you  so  much." 

"  Oh,  it  will  hurt  so  to  tie  it !"  cried  Minerva. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Nina.  "  I  will  squeeze  the 
water  over  it  gently  first,  and  make  it  numb." 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !"  cried  the  sufferer,  a  few  mo- 
ments later,  as  the  first  drops  fell.  But  soon  the 
cooling  influence  so  gently  administered  began  to 
tell,  and  in  a  little  while  the  fair  surgeon  had  the 
soothing  bandages  in  place. 

"  Now  do  you  feel  stronger?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  so  much  better!"  said  Minerva,  looking, 
for  the  first  time,  into  the  face  of  her  benefactor, 
and  bursting  into  a  fresh  torrent  of  tears,  with 
which  physical  pain  had  very  little  to  do. 

"  We  must  let  you  rest  a  little,  and  then  put  you 
mto  the  carriage  and  take  you  home,"  said  Nina. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !"  protested  Minerva.  "  Not  in  the 
Calmire  carriage!  Let  the  men  send  somebody  for 
me,  please  do!" 

"  No.  It  would  take  too  long.  Such  things  al- 
ways take  longer  than  one  expects.  You  might 
catch  cold  lying  out  here,  and  I  don't  think  that 
ankle  is  a  good  thing  to  catch  cold  with.  It's 
getting  late  too,  and  it's  no  longer  Summer." 

"And  you  think  of  all  this  for  me  !"  blubbered 
poor  Minerva,  again  weeping  copiously. 

"  You're  not  safe  from  cold  there  now,"  was 
Nina's  answer.  We  must  lay  a  cushion  under 
you,  but  that  will  make  your  head  lower  still, 
and  it's  too  low  already,  so  we  must  have  two, 


io8         Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows. 

and  I  will  sit  on  one,  and  hold  your  head  in  my  lap." 

"Oh,  don't  touch  me!  Don't  touch  me!  I'm 
not  fit!"  moaned  the  girl. 

"  Blossom!  Come  and  help  me  !"  called  Nina,  who 
had  managed  to  keep  the  man  out  of  easy  earshot 
when  not  needed. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  much  better  !  I  can  help  myself!" 
sobbed  Minerva.  But  a  little  help  was  not  super- 
fluous in  establishing  her  on  Nina's  lap,  where  she 
lay  quietly  weeping  and  wiping  with  some  sort  of 
a  coquettish  little  apron,  the  few  tears  that  did  not 
eventually  trickle  over  upon  Nina's  devoted  cos- 
tume. At  times  she  moaned  :  "  I  don't  deserve 
it  L.I'd  rather  you'd  killed  me."  And  Nina  sim- 
ply soothed  her  with  some  such  phrase,  gently 
uttered,  as  "  Hush,  child!"  (The  '  child  '  was  several 
years  older  than  Nina.)  "  If  you  don't  keep  calm, 
you  will  not  be  strong  enough  for  us  to  get  you 
into  the  carriage." 

What  Nina  felt  during  the  strange  time  while 
this  was  going  on,  she  never  clearly  knew.  She 
was  inclined  to  think  that  she  did  not  feel  any- 
thing at  all,  except  sympathy  with  a  creature  in 
pain,  and  the  necessity  of  getting  the  girl  home. 
Whatever  she  felt,  she  sat  and  stroked  the  girl's 
hair  and  cooed  little  soothing  nothings  to  her, 
until  after  about  ten  minutes,  Minerva  looked 
calmly  up  at  her  and  said: 

"  You  dreadful  angel  !  I  think  I  am  strong 
enough  to  be  moved  now." 

Then  she  reached  up,  seized  Nina's  hands,  and 
covered  them  with  kisses  and  a  fresh  burst  of  tears. 


Misery  Makes  Strange  Bedfellows.         109 

And  Nina,  for  the  first  time,  felt  something  too. 
It  was  as  if  a  hand  grasped  her  throat,  and  there 
was  a  drop  on  Minerva's  forehead  that  did  not 
come  from  her  own  eyes. 

Soon  she  was  lifted  in  Blossom's  burly  arms, 
and  transferred  to  the  carriage,  Nina  all  the  while 
holding  the  leg  above  the  hurt  ankle. 

Then  Nina,  the  labors  and  dangers  over,  felt  the 
second  emotion  that  she  afterward  could  recall. 
It  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  get  into  the  car- 
riage. But  without  violating  truth,  she  could  say 
gently,  as  she  stood  beside  Minerva: 

"  You  seem  very  safe  there,  but  your  leg  is  bent. 
I  think  you  will  be  easier  if  you  sit  more  corner- 
wise,  and  we  move  your  feet  more  to  the  left.  I 
can  walk  beside  you  just  as  well  as  not." 

Then  occurred  the  strangest  thing  of  the  whole 
experience.  Minerva  leaned  over,  at  the  cost  of 
some  pain,  and  murmured  so  that  the  man  holding 
the  door  open  might  not  hear: 

"  It  makes  me  miserable  to  have  you  touch  me. 
And  yet  if  you  will  sit  beside  me  and  hold  my 
hand,  I  shall  be  stronger  and  better  the  rest  of  my 
life,  and  God  will  bless  you  !" 

Nina  got  into  the  carriage,  with  a  feeling  as  if 
she  were  entering  a  church. 

Somehow,  she  never  remembered  quite  how,  she 
got  Minerva  home,  and  got  back  to  Fleuvemont. 

There  she  escaped  all  the  household  but  Calmire, 
who  felt  that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  her. 
She  took  his  hand  with  a  smile  that  made  his 
heart  ache,  then  walked  mechanically  to  her  room, 
threw  herself  face  downward  across  the  bed,  and 
moaned:  "  My  God  !  My  God  !— My  lost  God  !" 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

THE     UNKNOWN     GOD. 

WHEN  Nina  went  to  her  toilet-table  to  prepare 
for  dinner,  (she  was  not  addicted  to  convenient 
headaches,  or  to  yielding  to  inconvenient  ones,) 
she  started  to  see  there  a  note  directed  in  Muriel's 
hand.  It  ran  simply: 

"  It  may  be  some  time  before  I  see  you,  and  1 
want  you  to  know  something  now.  You  have  done 
for  me,  from  the  first,  much  that  I  did  not  realize 
till  very  lately.  You  have  made  me  a  better  man. 
Since  I  first  saw  you,  I  have  been  Galahad. 

"M.  C." 

She  had  picked  up  the  note,  trembling  and 
deadly  pale.  She  read  it  once  impatiently  without 
taking  in  its  significance;  then  she  read  it  again 
more  deliberately,  and  at  the  last  word,  the  color 
rushed  to  her  face.  Her  hands  dropped,  both 
holding  the  note.  After  a  moment,  she  said  aloud  : 
"He  can't  have  supposed  that  I  knew?",  and  in 
another  moment,  she  said  to  herself:  "  Perhaps  he 
thought  I  might  come  to  know  !"  Then  she  read 
the  note  again,  kissed  it  passionately  and  put  it 
in  her  bosom. 

That  night,  it  may  well  be  supposed,  was  a  rest- 
less one  for  Nina.  From  Muriel's  note,  she  had 
gained  a  strange  sad  exultation,  and  notwithstand- 


"The  Unknown  God.  1 1 1 

ing  her  outburst  on  reaching  her  room  in  the  after- 
noon, she  had  found  a  certain  peace  in  the  recol- 
lection of  her  Samaritan-like  ministrations  to  the 
girl  who,  responsibly  or  not,  was  the  one  baleful 
shadow  on  her  life;  she  even  got  something  like 
comfort  from  that  poor  creature's  "  God  will  bless 
you."  But  who  was  God — what  was  God — to 
bless?  This  diverted  her  thoughts  to  the  aching 
questions  she  had  taken  to  Calmire,  and  they  alter- 
nated with  questions  of  her  future  and  Muriel's. 

Should  she  answer  his  note  ?  No,  not  now  !  It 
called  for  no  answer,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
say  He  could  not  know,  and  she  could  not  tell 
him,  that  it  meant  to  her  already  what,  he  plainly 
feared,  he  might  some  day  have  occasion  to  wish  it 
to  mean.  But  was  fear  of  future  possibilities  his 
only  motive?  Plainly  not:  he  might,  perhaps 
would,  have  written  the  same  thing,  had  such  pos- 
sibilities not  existed.  He  was  grateful  to  her — and 
there  was  more  than  that.  For  her  pure  mind,  his 
almost  shameless  candor  held  no  repugnance,  and 
despite  her  misery,  she  felt  very  proud — proud  of 
what  she  had  done  for  him — proud  of  him  and 
almost  grateful,  in  her  turn,  to  him,  and  she  felt 
the  impulse  to  write  and  tell  him  so.  But  no,  it 
was  impracticable  now.  Oh,  what  was  practicable 
— what  could  become  practicable  ? 

The  idea  that  he  had  ever  loved  Minerva  had 
not  once  entered  Nina's  mind,  and  with  this  letter 
proving  his  regeneration,  she  could  "forgive"  that 
mysterious  crime  of  his,  if  it  really  was  a  crime  call- 
ing for  forgiveness:  in  fact,  as  she  all  at  once  recog- 
nized with  triumphant  joy,  it  had  not  been  a  crime 


1 1 2  The  Unknown  God. 

against  her  at  all.  But  there  would  be  that 

other  woman  and  her  child  !  Could  they  be  shut 
out  of  Muriel's  home,  and  she  feel  a  right  to  share 
it?  Besides,  he  had  not  asked  her  to  share  his 
home.  But  she  knew  !  Alas  !  She  knew,  too, 

where  his  duty  was.  What  it  was,  was  too  vague 
for  her  to  think  out :  but  where  it  was,  she  had 
a  woman's  intense  conviction.  All  she  could 
do  for  h.im  now,  was  to  keep  him  there.  She 
had  done  something  for  him,  he  had  told  her  so  ; 
she  might  have  done  everything,  but  it  was  now 
too  late  !  Too  late  !  But  she  could  hold  him  to 
his  duty,  and  that  she  would. 

And  of  course  she  would  do  it  with  a  woman's 
passion  for  self-immolation. 

Then,  as  she  peered  into  the  mysterious  future, 
questions  of  Providence  and  God,  came  up  again 
and  filled  her  mind. 

After  she  had  lain  many  hours  wearily  pondering 
all  these  things,  she  yielded  to  the  temptation  that 
the  gleams  of  dawn  had  been  sending  through 
the  blinds,  and  arose  and  opened  one. 

She  uttered  an  exclamation  at  the  scene. 

Just  below  Fleuvemont,  the  river  widened  and 
made  a  great  backward  curve  by  some  obstructing 
hills,  so  that  Nina's  window  in  a  South-East  turret 
commanded  a  view  of  the  heights  where  the 
sun  was  coming.  It  had  just  begun  to  color 
the  long  stretch  of  sky  and  stream  :  above  the 
line  of  hills,  the  heavens  were  a  dark  dull  scar- 
let, like  faintly  glowing  iron,  and  they  shaded 
up,  growing  less  translucent,  into  the  deep,  deep 
blue  of  sapphires — almost  as  dark  as  night, 


The  Unknown  God.  \  \  3 

where  the  light  seems  contained  rather  than  given 
forth.  The  hills  themselves  were  defined  in  the 
same  deep  blue,  but  thick,  opaque,  intense  and 
unspeakably  rich,  and  edged  like  metal  against 
the  dull  red  sky.  Under  them,  was  the  wonder 
of  it  all — the  water,  intensely  blue  like  the  hills, 
though  glassy  against  the  deep  texture  of  the  land- 
color  :  but  quarter  of  the  way  across  the  stream, 
some  current  cut  the  dark  blue  with  a  much  lighter 
shade,  nearly  gray,  like  that  of  polished  steel  : 
then,  after  another  line  of  the  deep  blue,  was 
another  grayish  current,  and  so  the  whole  sur- 
face was  broken  into  irregular  bands  of  contrast- 
ing shades,  like  some  of  the  refined  miracles  of 
Japanese  art.  The  effect  was  emphasized  by 

great  oaks  in  the  foreground.  There  was  not  yet 
sunlight  enough  to  show  their  bright  Fall  colors, 
and  their  rugged  branches  here  and  there  thrust 
broad  dark  dashes  into  the  transcendent  picture. 
Between  some  of  the  dark  branches,  Nina  saw, 
lying  across  two  of  the  blue  and  gray  streaks 
of  the  river,  the  graceful  black  mass  of  a  great 
steam  yacht,  silent,  her  lights  still  burning,  her 
spars  black  against  the  deep  red  sky ;  and  far 
down  the  river,  where  sky  and  water  met  in  a 
misty  harmony  of  tints,  was  faintly  defined  against 
them  both,  the  colossal  shadowy  mass  of  a  coming 
steamer  and  its  smoke. 

All  this  wondrous  picture  met  Nina's  gaze  when 
she  first  looked  out,  but  after  she  was  lost  in  it  a 
few  moments,  she  let  her  eyes  range  away  from  its 
intense  colors,  to  her  right,  where,  half  around  her 
horizon,  all  sky  and  river  faded  into  faint  trans- 


1 14  The  Unknown  God. 

lucent  blue  and  pearl,  clean  cut  below  and  ruggedly 
gashed  above  by  the  dark  hills:  and  there,  high 
above  them,  glowed  and  throbbed  immense,  the 
white  purity  of  the  morning  star.  But  while  she 
was  contemplating  it,  she  became  conscious  of  a 
fainter  brightness  pervading  the  sky  far,  far  up, 
and  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw  toward  the  zenith, 
clear,  calm,  cold,  the  waning  moon.  Near  it  was 
one  little  star. 

But  these  gentle  lights  only  emphasized  the 
grandeur  of  the  scenes  below,  and  after  Nina  had 
wonderingly  surveyed  the  whole,  her  gaze  returned 
and  rested  there. 

She  wrapped  herself  up  warmly  and,  opening 
the  window,  seated  herself  by  it.  As  she  raised  her 
hand  to  support  her  cheek,  the  loose  sleeve  of  the 
green  plush  robe  fell  back  from  her  round  arm.  The 
robe  went  admirably  with  the  red-gold  hair  that 
tumbled  over  it,  and  her  strong  sweet  face  added 
poetry  to  what,  had  the  face  been  soulless,  would 
still  have  been  beautiful.  It  would  have  been  hard 
to  choose,  even  for  lofty  inspiration's  sake,  between 
the  picture  she  made  in  the  window  and  the  pic- 
ture she  saw  from  it. 

Nina  soon  ceased  to  note  the  details  of  the 
scene,  and  began  to  lose  herself  in  the  harmony 
of  the  whole,  just  as  one  feeling  great  chords  of 
music  has  no  thought  of  the  separate  tones:  the 
harmony  is  something  which  they  are  not.  So  in 
the  greatest  aspects  of  Nature,  is  given  something 
which  material  things  are  not — which  an  artist 
may  paint  each  thing  forever  without  expressing; 
which  only  the  greatest  artists  express  at  all,  and 


The  Unknown  God.  1 1 5 

to  express  which,  whatever  else  he  may  fail  in, 
makes  any  artist  great.  People  have  tried  to 
indicate  it  by  the  word  "atmosphere,"  but  at- 
mosphere is  only  one  of  its  mediums.  Others 
call  it  light,  but  it  does  not  appear  often  where 
there  is  much  light,  but  oftenest  when  the  Sun 
is  gone,  or  before  it  comes.  It  is  that  which 
is  more  than  light  or  air,  more  than  skies  or 
mountains  or  seas — which  includes  them  all  and 
all  that  is  upon  them,  in  an  integral  whole.  And 
it  is  from  this  vast  unity  that  comes  the  vastest 
feeling  known  to  man — a  feeling  which  not  only 
fills  the  soul,  but  includes  it — makes  it  one  with 
Nature,  or,  as  has  been  said,  one  with  God. 

Nina's  troubled  thoughts  had  all  passed  away 
like  vapors,  and  her  whole  being  was  interfused 
with  the  mighty  beauty  before  her.  When  her 
power  of  feeling  flagged  enough  for  her  to  think, 
her  first  definite  idea  was:  "  How  mysterious 
it  all  is  !"  Then,  after  another  period  of  the  in- 
effable feeling,  she  thought  again:  "But  what 
is  the  mystery — what  is  behind  it  all  ?  All  this 
glory  is  only  an  aspect  of  something  beyond,  which 
I  feel,  as  one  feels  a  soul  behind  a  face. — Yes!  It  is 
that  Reality  for  which  Mr.  Calmire  said  one  name 
is  God." 

Then  her  thoughts  became  vague,  and  were  soon 
absorbed  again  in  the  emotions  through  which  Na- 
ture blended  its  soul  with  hers. 

In  the  next  recurrence  of  definite  ideas,  she  said 
to  herself:  "I  have  received  my  message  I  I  have 
received  my  message !  No  words  of  any  creed 
could  ever  carry  this  !" 


1 i  6  The  Unknown  God. 

After  another  interval,  she  felt  : 

"  It  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  there  is  not 
a  conscious  intelligence  behind  it  all  ! — Yes,  and 
a  beneficent  one  !  But  never  again  will  I  try  to 
narrow  my  feeling  of  that  Intelligence  into  any 
other  limits  that  human  attributes  can  express  1" 

Nina  did  not  go  downstairs  until  she  had  had 
a  long  and  refreshing  sleep.  When  she  left  the 
breakfast-table,  and  her  mother  had  gone  to  write 
some  letters,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Calmire  on 
the  piazza  and  ran  up  to  him  with  : 

"Oh  Mr.  Calmire!  If  you  had  only  seen  the 
sunrise  this  morning!" 

"Why,  I  did  :  they're  so  beautiful  at  this  time  of 
year  that  I  manage  to  see  them  pretty  often." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  felt  it  as  I  did  ?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  grave  kindness  and 
replied  : 

"What  did  you  feel?" 

"  That  it  was  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  !" 

"Yes,  dear,  but  wasn't  there  something  besides 
that,  and  more  definite — something  that  I  think 
must  be  generations  in  advance  of  our  language — 
something  that  a  man  can't  express  unless  he  can 
write  great  music  or  paint  a  Sistine  Madonna?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Calmi're,  how  strange  !  I  did  have 
just  that  feeling  before  the  Madonna.  And  you  did 
too  ?" 

"  Yes,  one  sometimes  has  it  before  the  greatest 
art  of  any  kind — where  what  they  call  'the  divine 
in  man  '  expresses  itself.  Just  as  the  Divine  out- 
side of  him  expresses  itself  through  Nature." 


The  Unknown  God.  1 1 7 

He  paused  a  moment,  apparently  reflecting,  and 
then  asked  :  "Did  you  hear  any  music?' 

"  A  bird  or  two." 

"  Nothing  more,  though?" 
.  "  Why  no  !     Did  you  ?" 

"  Not  this  time." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Calmire  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said  : 

"  I  don't  often  talk  about  it,  but  I  thought  you 
might  know.  There's  more  than  we  see — in  two 
senses.  But  I  think  we  see  better  than  we  hear  : 
sight  is  probably  the  older  and  better-practiced 
sense.  There's  music  there,  though.  I  didn't 

hear  it  this  time,  but  I've  heard  it  before."     He 
spoke  very  solemnly. 

"Mr.  Calmire!     Really?-  What  was  it  like?" 

"  More  like  the  deep  choruses  of  men's  voices 
than  anything  else  I  can  recall.  Yet  the  bird-songs 
blended  with  it,  but  vastly  better  even  than  the 
violins  do  with  the  pilgrim  motive  in  Tannhduser." 
He  paused  again,  but  evidently  overcame  some 
reluctance,  and  went  on  :  "  You  know  I'm  not 
what  you  call  superstitious,  Nina,  but  there  were 
some  strange  things  about  this.  I've  heard  it  two 
or  three  times.  It  was  when  I  awoke  in  the  very 
early  morning,  and  I  think  that  each  time  there 
was  death  in  my  house,  or  impending  over  it." 

Nina  felt  a  sense  of  awe  that  kept  her  silent. 

"That  fact,"  Calmire  continued  after  a  little 
while,  with  a  marked  change  of  expression,  "  may 
have  been  mere  coincidence.  I  was  anxious,  my 
nerves  overstrained,  and  I  awoke  early.  But,  coin- 
cidence or  not,  the  fact  is  as  I  have  stated  it," 


1 1 8  The  Unknown  God 

"  Did  you  never  hear  it  at  any  other  times  ?'; 
asked  Nina. 

"  Not  that  I  can  recall.  I  suspect,  though,  that  the 
great  musicians  must  hear  it  often,  and  that  if  my 
experience  was  not  fortuitous,  it  was  because  the 
circumstances  had  developed  in  me  some  special 
nervous  sensibility  that  the  great  musicians  often 
experience.  They  do  not  make  the  music,  but 
Nature  sends  it  through  them.  It  is  always  there 
in  Nature,  whether  we  hear  it  or  not,  just  as  the 
greatest  pictures  are,  whether  our  eyes  are  open  or 
not;  and,  for  that  matter  (as  I've  tried  to  show  you 
in  all  our  talks), just  as  all  great  things  are — great 
beyond  our  perceptions  or  our  dreams." 

"And  God  behind  them  all!"  exclaimed  Nina. 

"  Let  us  rather  say,  '  God  in  them  all,' "  re- 
sponded Calmire.  After  a  moment,  he  said  :  "  No 
people  who  could  feel  what  we  felt  this  morning, 
could  have  more  than  one  God.  It  may  seem 
eccentric,  but  sometimes,  especially  after  such  an 
experience,  the  use  of  that  word  'God  '  arouses  in 
me  feelings  very  like  those  which  orthodox  people 
have  regarding  its  use  profanely.  The  word  has 
so  long  done  duty  for  such  limited  and  base  con- 
ceptions of  the  Ineffable  Power,  that  to  me  it  often 
calls  up  repugnant  associations." 

"Well,  what  word  shall  I  use?"  asked  Nina. 

"Oh,  any! — that  one,  if  you  please:  no  newer 
one  comes  natural  so  often." 

After  a  little  silence,  she  spoke  up  :  "  Mr.  Calmire, 
why  should  not  the  Ineffable  Power  (that  term 
comes  more  natural  than  the  old  one  this  time, 
thank  you), — why  shouldn't  the  Power  which  mani- 


The  Unknown  God.  !  19 

fests  itself  in  everything,  manifest  itself  as  a  human 
being?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  credibly 
informed  that  it  does,  in  some  fifteen  hundred 
million  instances,  to-day." 

"  Oh,  is  there  anything  that  you  won't  tease 
about?"  she  exclaimed,  smiling  in  spite  of  her  im- 
patience. "You  know  what  I  mean!  Why,  after 
all,  shouldn't  there  be  behind  all  we  see,  a  Cause 
like  a  human  being  ?" 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  answered  Calmire,  "  anything 
like  a  human  being  pervading  all  Nature,  or  even 
the  portion  that  we  saw  this  morning,  and  I  don't 
think  you  can.  But  assume  that  there  is  such  a 
self-contradictory  Being,  why  should  he  be  more 
like  an  inhabitant  of  earth  than  like  an  inhabitant 
of  Neptune  or  Mars  or  any  other  of  the  countless 
heavenly  bodits  ?  None  of  their  inhabitants  can  be 
like  human  beings:  their  air  is  denser  or  thinner 
than  ours,  their  days  and  years  longer  or  shorter; 
their  heat  great  enough  to  burn  us,  or  their  cold  to 
freeze  us;  their  light  to  blind  us,  or  their  darkness 
to  incapacitate  us;  and  their  gravitation  so  great 
that  our  muscles  could  not  move  us  against  it,  or  so 
little  that  perhaps  one  of  our  jumps  would  carry 
us  over  their  moons.  So  they  can't  be  like  us,  and 
it's  just  as  reasonable  that  God  should  be  like 
any  of  them  as  like  us." 

"But,"  she  persisted,  "you  showed  me  the  other 
day  that  there  must  be  intelligence  and  morality 
everywhere." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  he  answered,  "  and  there's 
certainly  not  the  same  absurdity  in  making  a  moral 


I2O  The  Unknown  God. 

and  intelligent  God,  if  you're  going  to  make  one  at 
all,  that  there  is  in  making  an  entirely  anthro- 
pomorphic one.  The  notion  of  a  God  narrowed 
to  a  specific  form,  which  could  be  distinguished 
from  other  forms,  and  therefore  must  be  less  than 
the  whole,  seems  to  me  belittling.  But  if  you  want 
to  indulge  your  fancies  wider,  there's  not  much 
difficulty  in  forming  an  impression  that,  as  man 
includes  all  inferior  earthly  types,  from  the  cell 
of  protoplasm  up,  so  there  may  be  some  form  of 
existence  higher  than  any  other,  which  includes 
all  other  forms,  man's  among  them." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  that,"  said  Nina. 

"  Why,  you  know,  (But  of  course  you  don't,)  that 
in  the  egg,  the  higher  animal  develops,  in  a  rough 
way,  through  the  forms  of  those  below  him — the 
highest  being,  in  the  egg,  at  one  time,  we'll  say, 
like  a  fish,  later  a  reptile,  then  a  bird,  and  then  a 
quadrupedal  mammal.  And  a  man's  thoughts  and 
feelings  also,  include,  to  a  considerable  extent, 
those  below  him  :  there's  not  much  that  the  lower 
creatures  do  and  feel,  that  he  doesn't.  Now 

the  universe  (I  don't  mean  merely  the  little  uni- 
verse revealed  to  us,)  in  fact  does  include  all  forms 
of  being,  in  a  wider  way  than  the  man  includes  the 
forms  below  him,  and  so  the  whole  universe  may 
be,  in  some  sense  too  wide  for  us,  a  higher  form 
than  all  the  rest.  So,  I  confess,  I'm  pantheist 
enough  to  have  a  frequent  feeling  in  regard  to 
the  entire  universe  (so  far  as  I  can  hold  the  con- 
ception) not  entirely  unlike  the  feelings  of  those 
who  worship  an  anthropomorphic  God." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Calmire,  though  you  do  not  revere  a 


The  Unknown  God.  l21 

1  person,'  you  are  an  intensely  reverent  man.  But 
I  hardly  know  myself  when  I  say  it.  And  this 
morning  I  felt  some  of  the  reverence  which  I  find 
you  full  of.  But  did  you  have  the  same  kind  when 
you  were  as  young  as  I  ?" 

"  Perhaps.  But  it  has  grown  as  I  have  grown. 
I  remember  riding  one  Fall  morning,  when  I  was 
little  more  than  a  boy,  with  Nature  spread  out 
before  me — there  was  a  gray  sky  with  a  band 
of  yellow  light  under  it,  far  off  :  I  saw  it  under 
some  great  trees  that  I  was  passing,  and  I  was 
pondering  on  the  contradictions  and  absurdities 
of  the  creeds,  when  a  realization  came  over  me  that 
not  in  the  written  creeds,  but  right  there  before 
me,  in  the  universe  itself,  was  the  place  to  seek 
God.  From  that  place,  all  the  faiths  had  been 
built :  they  were  simply  composed  of  the  im- 
pressions, combined  and  recombined,  that  the 
universe  had  made  on  different  men.  Then  I 
thought:  'My  creed  shall  be  the  impressions  the 
universe  makes  on  me!'  I  often  think  of  that 

ride  as  being  to  me  what  a  certain  ride  of  Saul  of 
Tarsus  was  to  him.  So,  pondering  upon  the 

immeasurable  universe,  of  which  only  some  little 
manifestations  reach  us  through  our  senses,  I  have 
got  into  the  way  of  feeling  toward  it,  much  of 
what  you  have  felt  toward  'God, 'and,  as  I  told 
you  the  other  day,  of  feeling  toward  each  advance 
in  knowledge,  as  so  much  more  knowledge  of  God. 
I  don't  believe  that  any  person  evolved  to  knowing 
the  feeling  we  had  this  morning,  really  needs  an 
anthropomorphic  God," 


122  The  Unknown  God. 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  that's  all  so  abstract  and  un- 
human.  I  want  sympathy." 

"  Did  you  experience  anything  like  sympathy 
this  morning?" 

Nina  meditated  and  answered:  "Yes,  I  did." 

".Do  you  suppose  that  if  you  were  more  highly 
evolved,  you  would  have  experienced  more  ?  Re- 
flect that  some  thousands  of  generations  back,  your 
ancestors  didn't  experience  any." 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  one  might." 

"And  wasn't  there  a  sense  of  something  that  in- 
cludes the  human  as  well  as  transcends  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  yet  you  want  to  bring  it  down  to  the 
human!  That  may  do  for  those  who  never  felt 
the  soul  behind  Nature." 

"  Ah  well,"  sighed  the  girl,  "  this  is  all  so  new 
and  strange  \  I've  been  so  used  to  hearing  of  the 
absurdity  of  '  Nature-worship.'  And  in  those  days 
I  didn't  feel  what  is  behind,  any  more  than  the 
scoffers  did.  I  supposed  that  what  we  see,  was 
all  of  Nature;  and  that  God  was  a  man  sitting  off 
somewhere  away.  I  waver  a  great  deal  yet,  but 
I've  really  grown  beyond  that." 

"  So  big!"  said  Calmire,  holding  apart  his  hands 
in  the  way  that  always  accompanies  that  expression 
with  children,  and  smiling  sympathetically.  "  But 
you  mustn't  think  of  God  only  as  behind  external 
nature.  What  power  made  our  ancestral  speck 
of  floating  jelly  contract  when  it  touched  some- 
thing? What  made  that  responsive  tendency 
pass  down  from  generation  to  generation,  and  in- 
crease until  it  reacted  to  heat  and  light  and  color 


The  Unknown  God.  I23 

and  sound  and  music  and  words  and  every  influ- 
ence we  know — until  the  descendant  became  man 
himself?  And  even  then,  what  power  sustains 
man  ?  He  is  not  self-existent  or  self-dependent : 
his  every  pulse  beats  without  his  will;  his  very 
brain,  wherein  resides  his  most  essential  self,  works 
by  forces  which  he  cannot  half  control.  What 
are  those  forces  :  you  saw  God  behind  the  Sistine 
Madonna — an  image  of  the  human  :  have  you  never 
had  the  same  feeling  in  relation  to  the  human 
itself?" 

Nina  pondered,  and  there  came  up  before  her 
Calmire's  face  as  he  sat  on  his  horse  before  the 
runaways;  and  then,  with  a  contrast  that  almost 
terrified  her,  though  it  did  not  displease  her, 
came  Muriel's,  in  his  just  but  awful  wrath  when 
he  defended  the  woman  in  the  shrubbery.  The 
images  passed,  and  she  looked  up  with  a  complex 
expression  that  puzzled  Calmire,  and  said:  "Yes." 

"The  truth  is,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment, 
"  that  there  ought  never  to  be  a  question  of  God 
behind  Man  or  Nature,  but  only  of  what  sort  of  a 
God  ;  and  if  the  anthropomorphists  would  but 
stop  manufacturing  one  that  Man  and  Nature  both 
contradict,  and  be  humble  and  patient  enough 
to  learn  of  the  real  one  from  the  manifestations 
through  all  real  things,  (among  which,  of  course, 
I  include  all  mind  consistent  with  external  Nature, 
and  not  warped  by  this  mysterious  free-will  of 
ours,)  there  wouldn't  be  any  more  quarreling — the 
'  reconciliation  of  Science  and  Religion '  would 
come.  But  even  so  far,  despite  all  the  quarrels 
regarding  details,  few  people  really  doubt  that 


124  The  Unknown  God. 

under  all  things,  is  the  Unknown  God — that  same 
Unknown  God  to  whom  Paul  found  an  altar  in- 
scribed in  Athens." 

"  But,"  queried  Nina,  "  wasn't  that  altar  supposed 
to  be  raised  by  polytheists  who  feared  they  would 
leave  some  god  out?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  seems  to  me  more  likely  to  have 
marked  one  of  those  splendid  Greek,  or  Egyptian, 
guesses  which  modern  knowledge  is  all  the  time 
confirming  and  developing.  So  man  has  made  his 
guesses  and  built  his  altars  all  over  the  world, 
but  after  all,  it  is  largely  in  his  laboratories  that 
God  has  become  less  '  unknown.'  Many  of  Paul's 
lofty  inspirations  are  splendidly  confirmed, .though, 
by  our  knowledge.  He  preached,  apropos  of  that 
altar,  you  know,  that  God  is  not  like  images  of 
metal  or  stone,  and  '  dwelleth  not  in  temples  made 
with  hands,' that  he  is  'not  far  from  every  one  of 
us,'  that  'neither  is  he  worshipped  with  hands 
as  though  he  needed  anything,'  that  '  he  giveth 
life  and  breath  to  all  things,'  and  that  '  in  him 
we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being.'  Now 
all  this  applies  perfectly  to  our  conceptions  of 
the  Ineffable  Power.  I  recall  a  mediaeval  Latin 
hymn  which  expresses  the  same  feeling  The  old 
monk  called  his  God 

"  '  Super  cuncta,  subter  cuncta, 
Extra  cuncta,  intra  cuncta. ' 

"  Do  you  remember  Latin  enough  to  get  the 
points  ?" 

"  Not  to  be  sure  of  them.  You'd  better  give  them 
to  me." 


The  Unknown  God,  125 

"  Well,  it  means  simply  *  over  all  things,  under  all 
things,  beyond  all  things,  within  all  things,'  and 
yet  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  that  the  man  who 
wrote  it,  had,  running  parallel  with  it,  an  entirely 
anthropomorphic  notion  of  God — that  he  fully  be- 
lieved the  statement  that  Moses  had  seen  'God's 
back.'  I  haven't  any  doubt  that  he  'believed'  (in 
his  way)  two  utterly  contradictory  propositions, 
that  his  God  was  a  man  whom  he  could  see  and 
shake  hands  with,  and  that  he  was  at  the  same 
time  '•extra  cuncta,  intra  cunctaj  and  the  rest  of  it: 
the  mediaeval  mind  was  doing  such  things  all  the 
while.  There  are  plenty  of  such  minds  cotem- 
porary  with  us,  just  as  there  are  still  savages  in 
the  stone  age.  Even  Paul  was  so:  he  began  that 
splendid  discourse  on  the  Unknown  God,  by  calling 
the  worshippers  of  the  Unknown  God,  idolaters, 
while  they  are  really  the  only  people  who  are  not — 
who  make  no  idol,  in  imagination  or  in  matter. 
But  despite  his  hard  words,  Paul  loved  to  feel 
the  Universal  Presence  as  we  did  this  morning, 
in  the  'temples  not  made  with  hands.'  " 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

GOD    AND    MAN. 

AFTER  a  little  pause,  Nina  said:  "All  that  you 
have  been  telling  me  is  very  interesting  and  seems 
very  true.  Perhaps  I  shall  grow  up  to  it  sometime. 
But  yet  I  yearn  like  a  child  for  God  as  a  loving 
father,  and  feel  lonely  in  a  world  that  seems  to 
have  no  one  to  take  care  of  it  and  no  one  to  take 
care  of  me — where  there  seems  so  little  to  keep 
men  good,  and  very  much  to  tempt  them  to  be 
bad." 

Under  his  deep  brows,  Calmire  shot  a  look  at  her 
which  seemed  to  come  from  Muriel's  eyes.  "What 
does  she  mean  by  that  ?  Can  she  possibly  know  ?" 
he  said  to  himself.  Then  he  reflected:  "Even  if 
she  should,  there's  nothing  I  can  do  now,  but  go 
on  and  build  up  her  supports,  and  divert  her  as  I 
can."  But  then,  despite  poor  banished  Muriel, 

there  raised  itself,  like  a  serpent's  head,  the  idea 
that,  lovely  as  she  was,  it  would  be  a  joy  to  in- 
struct and  uphold  her  always.  He  put  his  heel  on 
the  thought,  and  went  on  with  his  earlier  themes. 

"You  say  the  world  is  not  taken  care  of.  As- 
sume that  it  takes  care  of  itself,  and  not  very  good 
care  at  that:  all  the  same,  there  has  been  enough 
care  of  some  kind  to  make  it  grow  from  a  planet 
inhabited  only  by  'the  fearful  dragons  of  the 

126 


God  and  Man.  127 

prime,'  into  one  graced  by  a  few  such  creatures  as 
yourself;  I  don't  think  that  you're  ever  going  to 
get  back  the  idea  that  there's  anything  outside  of 
human  relations,  corresponding  to  the  care  of  a 
parent  for  a  young  child  :  and  you've  got  to  face 
the  facts  and  get  along  without  it.  Nature  does 
provide  us  with  parents  during  our  childhood,  but 
when  we  are  old  enough,  she  leaves  us  to  our- 
selves. It's  the  only  way  we  can  conceive  of,  to 
ensure  our  intellectual  and  moral  development, 
and  such  freedom  of  the  will  as  is  possible  un- 
der our  circumstances.  For  that  last,  we  have  to 
pay  the  standard  price  of  freedom,  in  vigilance, 
self-denial,  and  effort.  It's  the  true  wisdom  to  say: 
'  Here  are  Nature's  laws.  They  are  all  I  have, 
and,  except  as  I  learn  more,  all  I  can  have.  I  know 
I  can  depend  upon  them  absolutely.  Here  am  I, 
with  a  given  power  to  know  them  and  use  them. 
It  is  power  enough,  rightly  used,  to  make  life  on 
the  whole  worthwhile,  and  to  enable  me  to  make 
it  worthwhile,  perhaps,  for  some  to  whom  it  would 
not  otherwise  be  so.  Let  me  take  my  life,  then, 
happily  if  I  can,  but  bravely,  whether  happily  or 
not.'  " 

"Ah!"  said  Nina,  "but  so  few  of  us  are  that 
strong — especially  so  few  women.  We  need  the 
good  God  over  all." 

"  Some  women  are  that  strong,  and  you  are  going 
to  be.  I  have  not  said  that  there  is  no  '  good  God 
over  all.'  I  simply  say  that  if  there  is  one,  he 
gives  us  his  care  in  a  certain  way,  so  much  of  it 
and  no  more.  For  my  part,  I  can't  enter  into  the 
mind  of  any  well-informed  person  who  thinks  of 


1 28  God  and  Man. 

God  as  interfering  and  tinkering  with  the  universe 
at  all.  Why,  even  a  great  human  administrator 
proves  his  ability  by  organizing  a  set  of  agents  and 
principles  to  do  something,  and  then  leaving  them, 
with  occasional  oversight,  to  do  it." 

"  You  allow  room  for  occasional  oversight,  then  ?" 

"  Not  on  the  part  of  an  organizer  great  enough 
to  do  without  it." 

"  I  prefer,"  said  Nina,  "  to  think  of  God  as  con- 
stantly watching  over  me,  as  a  father  would  who 
could  always  be  with  his  child." 

"Yes,  dear.  But  what  we  '  prefer'  is  one  thing, 
and  what  we  have,  may  be  another.  The  only 
thing  that  it  is  reasonable  and  honest  to  '  prefer  to 
think  '  is  whatever  happens  to  be  the  true  thing. 
Now  thinking  of  God  as  constantly  watching  over 
us  as  a  father  watches  over  his  children,  is  against 
the  evidence:  for  the  axes  have  fallen  and  the  fag- 
gots have  burned  in  spite  of  all  the  martyrs'  trust; 
and  men  have  been  lost  and  children  have  died 
in  spite  of  all  the  women's  faith.  It  all  may  be 
essential  to  the  development  of  the  race;  it  may 
all  fit  in  with  some  scheme  wider  and  grander  than 
any  human  father  could  conceive:  but  to  assume 
that  it  does,  is  purely  gratuitous.  Look  at  it 
squarely,  and  there's  nothing  in  it  like  the  human 
father.  Whatever  the  All-father  may  be,  he  has 
put  us  off  to  boarding-school,  possibly  for  our 
own  good,  and  never  comes  to  see  us.  He  may 
sometimes  hint  his  existence,  though,  as  perhaps 
we  may  assume  he  did  this  morning,  and  send  us 
great  inspirations  with  the  hint." 

Nina  pondered  a  few  moments  and  then   said  : 


God  and  Man.  1 29 

"But  can't  the  administrator  be  great  enough  to 
make  the  law  go  down  to  the  minutest  particulars 
of  our  lives  ?" 

"What  a  girl  you  are!  Do  you  know  that  you 
have  asked  the  question  that  puzzles  me  more 
than  all  others  ?  Certain  illegitimate  ones  might 
puzzle  me  more,  if  I  would  dwell  on  them,  but 
that  seems  a  legitimate  one.  Surely  every  one 
who  has  suffered  much  has  found,  if  he  has  tried 
to  do  his  best,  that  the  suffering — the  loss,  the 
apparent  neglect  and  cruelty  of  God,  if  you  want 
to  put  it  in  that  way,  has  had  some  beneficial  effect 
on  his  character,  and  he  even  may  have  sometimes 
found  a  more  or  less  compensating  side  in  the 
circumstances  themselves:  so  he  has  at  least  been 
tempted  by  the  doctrine  that  '  all  is  for  the  best ! ' 
There's  no  sort  of  doubt  that  what  appear  to  be 
the  blind  general  forces  of  the  universe  do  go 
much  deeper  into  the  details  of  our  individual 
lives — both  outer  and  inner,  than  thoughtless  peo- 
ple realize." 

He  paused,  meditating  a  moment,  and  Nina, 
with  a  little  sense  of  possible  victory,  said: 

"Well,  Mr.  Calmire?" 

"  I've  watched  it  as  closely  as  I  could,  my  child, 
in  my  own  life  and  others,  and  I've  thought  upon 
it  as  deeply  as  I  can.  My  conclusion  is,  that,  what- 
ever evolution  may  be  tending  toward,  so  far,  the 
universal  forces  are  not  enough  specialized  to  go 
much  deeper  than  the  general  features  of  our 
lives.  All  evolution  is  specialization,  you  know, 
and  there's  no  knowing  how  far,  even  down  into  the 
special  needs  of  character,  the  external  influences 


130  God  and  Man. 

may  yet  go.  But  for  the  present,  I  have  to 
content  myself  with  the  boarding-school  view. 
It  may  be  the  very  best  thing  for  us.  If  there's 
a  Father  who  sends  us  off  here,  he  may  be  a 
better  Father  than  if  he  coddled  us  more.  The 
school  has  its  merits  :  there  are  no  freaks  in  the 
management,  and  no  excuses  are  received.  My 
only  objection  is,  that  there's  no  way  of  learn- 
ing all  the  rules,  and  we're  constantly  getting  into 
trouble  for  violating  rules  that  we  have  had  no 
chance  to  learn.  That,  if  you  are  going  to  hold  a 
'  person'  responsible  for  it,  is  not  fair  play.  At  this 
stage  of  evolution,  though,  perhaps  we  get  into 
more  trouble  for  violating  rules  which  we  do  know 
than  for  violating  those  we  don't." 

"  Yes,  I've  often  heard  Earth  called  a  school  for 
Heaven,"  Nina  interrupted. 

"  It  may  be,  for  all  we  know,"  Calmire  assented. 
"  But  intellectual  health  requires  us  to  realize  that 
while  we  are  off  at  this  school,  no  Father  who  sent 
us  here  has  anything  more  to  do  with  us  directly 
than  if  he  didn't  exist ;  and  therefore,  if  I  were  to 
reason  anthropomorphically,  I  should  assume  it  to 
be  His  wish  that  we  are  not  to  spend  our  time  and 
strength  over  questions  regarding  Him,  but  to 
busy  ourselves  in  doing  what  He  has  given  us  to 
do,  and  enjoying  what  He  has  given  us  to  enjoy. 
We  have  more  than  enough  to  occupy  us,  and  I've 
seen  enough  of  the  results  of  illegitimate  specula- 
tion. Whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  the  Cause, 
the  only  revelations  of  it  that  we  have  are  through 
Nature  and  human  nature,  and  come  best  inci- 
dentally to  our  work  there.  So,  it  seems  to  me, 


God  and  Man.  1 3 r 

have  the  greatest  teachers  taught.  Christ  himself 
was  full  of  the  duties  of  human  life  :  I  can't 
imagine  anything  more  alien  to  his  own  example 
than  the  protracted  seclusion  and  exaggerated 
self-communion  and  asceticism  of  so  many  of  his 
professed  followers.  The  world  owes  a  great  deal 
to  its  saints,  but  I  suspect  it  owes  more  to  its 
investigators.  The  church  admits  something  in 
that  direction,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  when  it 
proposes  to  make  a  saint  of  Christopher  Columbus, 
and  something  of  the  same  kind  when  it  made  one 
of  Charles  the  Great. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "to  sum  it  all  up,  what 
have  we  to  go  on  ?  We  know  that  there  is  a  Power 
which  we  cannot  conceive  as  limited.  We  know 
that  it  works  in  accordance  with  laws  that  we  have 
never  known  to  vary.  (Of  course  I  leave  miracles 
out  of  the  question,  as  absurdities  common  to  all 
the  religions.)  We  know  that  we  can  study  its  laws} 
gaining  by  the  study,  and — most  important  and 
very  strange  ! — we  know  that  as  fast  as  we  learn 
its  laws,  we  can  ourselves  use  that  awful  Power — 
that  it  then  submits  itself  to  our  commands — that, 
so  far  from  being,  as  it  appears  to  the  savage,  a 
remote  God  to  be  assailed  by  prayer,  it  is  then,  as 
it  appears  to  the  scientist,  a  familiar  friend,  and 
even  servant,  of  unswerving  faithfulness,  to  be  con- 
trolled by  knowledge." 

"  What  ?"  cried  Nina.     "  God  our  servant  !" 

"The  idea  only  illustrates  the  absurdities  of  the 

anthropomorphic  conception,"  Calmire  answered. 

"  I    did    not  say  anything  about  God,  except   to 

state  the  savage's  idea.     I  only  spoke  of  the  mo- 


I32  God  and  Man. 

live  Power  of  the  universe  as  we  know  it.  Nearly 
all  savages  place  a  God  behind  it.  An  increasing 
number  of  civilized  men  refuse  to  try  to  go  behind 
it  at  all.  The  strongest  intellects  of  the  time 
declare  themselves  too  weak  to.  But,  to  go  back  : 
I  didn't  mean  by  the  Universal  Power,  mere  brute 
force  :  for  certainly  in  the  operations  of  the 
Power,  we  must  include  all  the  normal  functions 
of  man  himself — thought,  emotion,  conscience, 
aspiration.  Nature  is  the  source  of  all  those 
things,  even  if  she  has  added  a  certain  paradoxical 
freedom  of  will  to  use  them,  or  even  if  she  has  been 
educating  us  from  the  very  beginning  to  control 
herself.  You  don't  find  any  human  parents  as 
generous  as  that !  All  the  same,  however,  that 
pretty  fancy,  like  every  other  one  raised  by  our 
finite  capacities,  regarding  that  infinite  subject,  is 
nonsense  :  for  there  is  no  generosity  in  giving 
when  infinity  is  left :  and  that  very  sentence,  too, 
you  see,  is  nonsense  ;  for  how  can  infinity  be  left, 
when  it  is  less  than  infinity  by  so  much  as  has 
been  taken  from  it  ?  So  let  us  mark  again  the 
constant  lesson  that  it  is  foolish  for  us  to  specu- 
late on  the  nature  of  an  unlimited  Power:  our 
limited  faculties  are  only  for  its  limited  manifesta- 
tions. No  matter  in  what  direction  we  attempt  to 
get  beyond  them,  we  always  find  ourselves  swamped 
in  paradox.  If  you  try  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  by 
putting  an  out-and-out  human  God  behind  it  all, 
you  have  the  father  educating  his  children  to  unite 
with  him  in  the  control  of  things,  and  giving  them 
control  as  fast  as  they  learn  how  to  use  it.  But 
then  you  see  you  must  limit  his  power  or  his 


God  and  Man.  133 

kindness,  for  if  a  human  parent  could  effectually 
educate  us  without  pain,  he  would  :  so  we're  in 
paradox  again, 

"The  only  reasonable  course  is  to  find  content 
in  knowing  that  the  manifestations  of  the  Power 
work  for  the  constantly  increasing  wisdom,  good- 
ness, and  happiness  of  the  human  race;  that  while 
around  us  misery  and  ugliness  are  frequent,  they 
do  not  prevail,  but  that  happiness  and  beauty  are, 
on  the  whole,  characteristic  of  our  world  ;  and 
that,  in  all  conceivable  probability,  behind  all  the 
happiness  and  beauty  of  which  we  are  conscious, 
is  infinitely  more — infinite  material  for  higher 
thought  and  loftier  emotion,  some  of  which,  our 
descendants,  with  finer  capacities  than  ours,  will 
enter  into.  Moreover,  while  there  is,  without,  the 
Divinity  we  see  and  feel;  there  is  within,  the  same 
Divinity  which,  without  seeing,  we  feel  more  really 
still — that  Divinity  including  us  but  distinct  from 
us,  and  we  distinct  from  It — even  controlling,  in 
our  little  measure,  the  very  forces  which  are  Its 
manifestations.  True,  that  little  measure  shades 
into  the  including  Immensity  so  that  we  cannot 
tell  where  It  resigns  and  we  become  ourselves — 
the  old,  old  mystery  of  fate  and  free-will;  but  de- 
spite the  mystery,  we  have  the  certainty  that,  in 
some  undefined  degree,  we  are  free  moral  agents — 
each  with  his  own  share  of  the  Universal  Power. 
Now  are  we  to  be  glad  of  what  we  have,  and  do 
our  best  to  increase  it,  for  ourselves  and  for  all  : 
or  are  we  to  count  it  as  nothing  because  we  have 
not  more  ?" 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

MORE    CORRESPONDENCE. 

Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire. 

"  Oct.  i8th,  18 — . 

"  THE  misery  has  begun  again.  I  started  to  address 
you  as  usual,  but  I  remembered  your  injunction 
to  write  nothing  that  an  outsider  could  identify. 
I  suppose,  though,  that  I  may  as  well  be  honest  in 
such  a  lying  world,  and  tell  you  that  I  did  not 
think  of  your  caution  until  I  hesitated  over  writing 
the  word  'Dear'  because  it  seemed  as  if  even  you 
had  joined  the  conspiracy  of  the  Universe  against 
me.  The  first  time  I  read  your  letter,  I  got  a  lot  of 
comfort  from  it.  But  as  I  think  it  over,  how  do  I 
know  that  it's  true  ?  How  do  I  know  that  anything 
is  true  ?  I've  found  out  long  ago  that  the  faiths  of 
my  childhood  were  lies.  What  warrant  is  there  that 
my  later  faiths — so  far  as  I  have  any,  are  not  ?  They 
all  broke  down  before  I  got  your  letter.  Why 
shouldn't  they  break  down  again  ?  The  very  ut- 
most that  we  can  be  sure  of,  is  what  has  happened. 
How  can  we  be  sure  of  what  is  going  to  happen  ? 
We  mites  of  men  can't  know  all  the  influences  at 
work  around  us.  How  do  I  know  that  my  legs  won't 
break  if  I  try  to  walk,  that  the  house  won't  fall  on  me, 
that  you  won't  lie  to  me,  that  even —  No  !  I  can't 
think  that !  But  surely  no  man  can  be  certain  of  his 
next  step.  We're  all  stumbling  along — no  guide 


Muriel  Calmire  to  Legrand  Calmire.       1 3  5 

but  blind  unfeeling  Chance.  No  man  goes  safely 
by  his  own  wisdom.  I've  as  much  sense  as  most 
fellows:  yes,  more,  if  I  do  say  it;  and  where  am  I  ? 
— while  most  of  the  fools  of  my  acquaintance  are 
happy  ! 

"  Now  because  you  didn't  admit  all  this  squarely, 
I  seem  to  lack  confidence  in  you.  Lots  of  things  in 
your  letter  did  seem  true  enough.  But  it  soon  got 
mighty  plain  that  they  only  had  been  true,  and  might 
change  at  any  moment.  The  queer  thing  is  that 
you  hadn't  sense  enough  to  see  that,  or  honesty 
enough  to  acknowledge  it. 

"Oct.  igth. 

"  There  seemed  something  wrong  about  it  all 
again  yesterday,  so  I  stopped.  But  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  can  see  to-day  what's  wrong,  except  that  there 
doesn't  seem  much  sense  in  questioning  your 
gumption  or  your  honesty. 

"  What  is  wrong  ? 

"  And  why  don't  I  blow  my  damned  brains  out  ?" 

Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

"Oct.  2oth,  18— . 

"To  begin  at  the  end  :  the  reason  you  don't  blow 
your  damned  brains  out,  is  that  it's  not  a  family 
habit.  Some  men  in  your  fix,  with  your  sort  of 
brains  (though  they're  not  an  altogether  'damned' 
sort  by  any  means),  would  have  done  it  before  this, 
but  there  are  some  conserving  elements  in  your 
make-up. 

"'  What  is  wrong?'  is  a  question  that  has 
puzzled  your  sort  of  brains  for  several  thousand 
years,  but  the  way  out  seems  simple  enough  now. 


1 36       Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

It  was  obscured  by  people  claiming  too  much — 
claiming  a  warrant  for  truth — especially  mathe- 
matical and  logical  truth,  superior  to  experience. 
That  blunder  has  been  corrected  by  the  discovery 
that  even  our  recognition  of  those  truths  depends 
on  ancestral  experience — that  the  Hottentot  can't 
be  taught  to  count  ten,  while  the  Englishman  writes 
the  Principia.  So  when  we  own  up  squarely  that 
all  our  knowledge  is,  like  our  capacities,  limited — 
that  our  certainty  is  only  approximate  ;  we're  in 
condition  to  realize  that  the  approximation  is  close 
enough  for  a  working  basis.  You  haven't  cer- 
tainty, but  you  don't  need  it.  Despite  the  tricks 
your  present  frame  of  mind  plays  you,  you're  not 
really  afraid  to  get  up  and  walk,  or  enter  a  house — 
or  to  trust  me,  as  far  as  my  capacities  go.  But 

I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you.     I  know  all  about  it. 

"  Of  your  last  letter,  I  only  answered  what  moved 
me  most.  Now  I'll  take  what  is  left,  seriatim. 

" f  Are  men's  punishments  in  any  way  propor- 
tioned to  the  evil  they  intend  to  do  ?'  No,  not  very 
closely.  We've  touched  on  that  before.  Even  the 
churches,  you  know,  don't  teach  an  equitable  dis- 
tribution of  rewards  and  punishments  in  this  life; 
and  one  of  their  arguments  for  a  future  life  is,  that 
it  will  afford  an  opportunity  to  compensate  the 
injustices  of  this. 

"  As  far  as  the  consequences  of  man's  acts  are 
regulated  by  Nature, — outside  of  man's  will, — 
there  is  no  room  for  justice.  It  is  a  purely  anthro- 
pomorphic conception;  we  read  it  from  ourselves 
into  Nature.  Thousands  of  men  do  just  as  you 


Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire.        137 

did  and  go  scot-free.  If  Nature  is  just  to  them,  she 
is  unjust  to  you;  if  she  is  just  to  you,  she  is  unjust 
to  them.  The  fact  is:  she  is  neither  just  nor  un- 
just. Justice  regards  motives,  but  Nature  outside 
of  man  knows  nothing  of  them:  she  is  as  merciless 
to  ignorance  as  to  crime.  Our  only  safe  guide, 
then,  is  the  absolute  hard  experience  that  the  race 
has  had  of  Nature's  ways,  and  that  is  embraced  in 
the  standard  morality — in  the  religions  or  out. 
Yet  never  forget  that  Nature,  in  the  social  sanctions, 
in  conscience,  and  in  the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  re- 
ligions, has  evolved  agencies  which  do  reward  and 
punish  motive.  But  outside  of  man,  Nature  has 
simply  her  laws  and  forces.  Anything  we  do  sets 
them  all  in  motion,  and  our  littlest  acts  sometimes 
release  the  greatest  of  them,  as  a  child  touching 
an  electric  button  blew  up  Hell  Gate.  Yet  unless 
we  absolutely  know  that  they  are  in  position  to 
crush  us,  we  start  them  on  some  slight  tempta- 
tion, hoping  they  will  miss  us  just  that  once  :  and 
all  the  time  we  know  (or  would  know,  if  it  were 
not  for  our  pestilent  anthropomorphism)  that  Na- 
ture has  no  intelligence,  no  pity,  no  justice,  to  turn 
her  forces  to  the  right  or  left.  Those  qualities  are 
man's,  and  make  him  ineffably  Nature's  superior, 
except  as  you  think  of  Nature  including  him. 
Pascal  puts  it  well:  '  It  is  not  necessary  for  the 
whole  universe  to  arm  itself  to  crush  a  man:  a 
mist,  a  drop  of  water  is  enough  to  kill  him.  But 
though  the  universe  crushes  him,  the  man  is  still 
more  noble  than  that  which  kills  him,  because 
man  knows  that  he  dies:  and  of  the  advantage 


138        Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

which  the  universe  has  over  him,  the  universe 
knows  nothing.' 

"  Well !  your  difficulty  about  the  water  deceiving 
and  drowning  you,  or  the  hills  falling  upon  and 
crushing  you,  is  answered.  In  fact,  you  answered 
it  yourself  when  you  said  that  if  it  were  not  for 
your  superior  intelligence  and  will,  the  water 
would  deceive  and  drown  you.  Think  of  this  in 
connection  with  the  cause  of  all  your  suffering — you 
are  overwhelmed  in  a  sea  of  woe,  simply  because 
you  did  not  use  the  superior  intelligence  and  will. 
You  were  not  'deceived'  at  all:  you  knew  your 
risk  and  ignored  it.  Nature  can  seldom  be  said  to 
deceive,  though  she  often  refuses  to  communicate. 

"But  even  suppose  she  were  'just,'  how,  after 
all,  could  the  motives  or  punishments  of  any  two 
men  be  the  same  ?  No  two  men  are  the  same.  In 
face  of  a  given  temptation,  your  realizations  of 
consequence,  and  your  resulting  obligations,  are 
very  different  from  those  of  most  men — most  men, 
in  your  situation,  would  not  be  suffering  much  : 
they'd  simply  content  themselves  in  repudiating 
the  whole  affair.  So  I  have  sometimes  been  led  to 
wonder  if  there  is  not,  after  all,  in  Nature's  way  of 
distributing  the  apparently  disproportionate  pun- 
ishments, a  closer  correspondence  with  our  ideas 
of  justice  than  we  realize. 

"I  hope  it's  proved  clearly  enough  by  this  time, 
that  it's  not  'all  a  damned  farce."  And  now  let's 
see  whether  the  fact  that  'in  a  little  while  it's  all 
over,'  really  does  'take  all  the  meaning  out  of  it.' 
Is  a  star  not  beautiful,  because  sometime  its  light 
is  going  to  fade  away?  Is  our  Sun  not  warm 


Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire.       1 39 

because  sometime  it  is  going  to  burn  out?  Are 
there  no  lovely  things  on  earth  because  aeons 
hence  there  will  be  none  ?  Are  there  no  duties  plain 
to-day  because  aeons  hence  there  will  be  no  duties  on 
earth  ?  To  make  to-day's  fruits  sweet,  to-day's  love 
blissful,  to-day's  duties  inspiring  or  even  binding,  is 
it  necessary  that  we  should  be  sure  that  the  same 
soul  which  responds  to  them  to-day  will  respond, 
say,  the  ten-millionth  day  from  this  ?  If  so,  to 
make  them  good  that  day,  is  it  necessary  that  the 
soul  should  then  be  sure  that  it  will  respond  the 
ten-millionth  day  from  'then  ?  And  so  on  to  an- 
other ten-millionth  day,  and  another  and  another 
ad  infinitum  ?  :  All  of  which,  you  simply  can't  con- 
ceive. 

"  The  argument  from  time,  applies  just  as  well  to 
sensation.  If  nothing  is  good  for  a  moment,  be- 
cause it  is  not  good  for  an  aeon,  so  nothing  is 
good  to  any  eye  or  any  palate,  because  it  might 
not  be  good  to  a  better  eye  or  a  better  palate. 
So  you  can  imagine  no  good  that  will  not  be  de- 
clared bad  by  a  sense  finer  than  the  one  which 
declares  it  good.  This  is  the  trouble  in  your 
Glumdalclitch  argument.  What  is  the  alternative? 
Simply  that,  as  I  answered  before,  where  senses 
are  balanced  to  objects,  as  they  are  when  any  or- 
ganism is  in  health,  there  is  good,  and  that  good  w 
good.  We  made  the  word  for  that  kind  of  good, 
for  we  know  no  other  kind.  To  deny  this,  and  try 
to  imagine  an  immortality  to  make  room  for  a  good 
nearer  perfect  than  we  know  here,  is  simply  to  re- 
move the  difficulty  a  step  farther  off,  and  to  land 
us  amid  the  follies  of  the  ascetics  who  avoid  the 


{40      Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Catmtre. 

plain  good  before  them,  because  they  can  imagine 
something  better.  Thus  they  ignore  most  of  the 
very  appetites  which  make  good,  so  far  as  we  know 
good,  possible.  In  health,  Nature  gives  us  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  power  to  feel  the  good  and  be  un- 
conscious of  the  bad.  It  is  a  fact  that  we  cannot 
escape,  and  we're  fools  (and  ungrateful  fools,  if 
you  want  to  be  anthropomorphic)  if  we  don't  take 
the  benefit  of  it. 

"  Good  is  found  in  the  reactions  between  man 
and  Nature.  I  don't  deny  that  a  man  sometimes 
gets  pinched  in  the  machinery;  and  I  don't  deny 
that,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  all  men  are  ultimately 
destroyed  in  that  same  machinery.  But  don't  let 
us  take  the  fact  that  we  cant  see  what  becomes  of 
the  man's  mind  and  consciousness,  as  final  proof 
that  they  too  are  destroyed;  and,  as  I  indicated  in 
my  last  letter,  don't  let's  forget  that  not  many 
men  at  once  are  pinched  to  death,  or  even  to  pain. 
Look  at  a  Coney  Island  Sunday — its  vast  aggre- 
gate of  happiness — more  happy  people  in  that  one 
spot  than  there  are  sufferers  in  the  whole  nation. 

"  But  the  beginning  of  wisdom  is  to  learn  that 
there  are  things  we've  got  to  stand,  and  not  to 
have  our  judgment  upset  by  them.  As  to  what  is 
vulgarly  considered  the  worst  thing  of  all — death, 
a  healthy  man  seldom  thinks  of  it.  That  life  is  to 
end,  detracts  nothing  from  its  value  to  him.  Is 
each  day  in  a  month  less  valuable  than  each 
day  in  a  year?  each  day  in  a  year  less  valuable 
than  each  day  in  a  lifetime?  each  day  in  a  life- 
time less  valuable  than  each  day  in  an  eternity? 
Can't  a  man  work  just  as  hard  if  he  knows  his 


Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Catmire.       14' 

time  is  short  as  if  he  knows  that  he  has  no  end  of 
it  to  waste  ?  If  it  requires  an  eternity  to  make 
life  significant,  aren't  you  in  the  midst  of  one 
now  ?  Would  its  significance  be  gone  if  your  single 
life  were  taken  out  of  it  ?  Can't  the  suns  swing 
without  your  help?  and  don't  you  know  that  they 
swing?  It's  eternity  now!  Haven't  you  all  you  can 
do  in  it? 

"  It  may  be  urged  that  some  men  are  better  for 
believing  in  immortality.  Probably  some  persecut- 
ing bigots  would  have  been  better  if  they  had  not 
believed  in  it,  and  many  men  are  good  without  be- 
lieving in  it.  But  I'm  not  quarreling  with  the  belief, 
but  only  with  the  claim  that  life  has  no  meaning 
without  it.  You  can't  know  that  you're  immortal, 
but  this  you  can  know — that  if  you  sit  with  folded 
hands, whining  for  more  life,  while  more  than  you 
can  handle  is  already  within  reach  on  every  side, 
you  don't  deserve  to  be  immortal." 

"  Instead  of  finding  fault  with  modern  religion- 
ists for  not  torturing  for  their  faith,  rejoice  in  their 
progress  over  their  ancestors.  Spencer's  demon- 
stration of  evolution  in  mind,  morals,  and  social 
institutions,  is  a  proof  of  what  all  the  ages  have 
been  longing  to  know — that  man  does  progress, 
and  that  the  grounds  of  hope  are  facts.  Civiliza- 
tions do  fall  as  well  as  rise,  but  each  inherits  from 
its  predecessors;  and  if  evolution  stops  in  one  solar 
system,  it  must,  ipso  facto,  if  the  latest  hypotheses 
are  correct,  begin  in  another.  So  while  you're 
wretched  because  the  Universe  is  out  of  joint,  be 
consistent  and  take  the  other  side  equally  in  the 
large  :  don't  fret  because  occasionally  a  man  dies 
or  a  civilization  crumbles  or  a  sun  burns  out;  but 


H2       Legrand  Calmire  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

reflect  that  the  Universe  as  a  whole,  moves  on. 
Rejoice,  too,  that  if,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  we  are 
not  to  participate  in  much  of  the  progress  our- 
selves, many  of  us  are  at  least  evolved  into  enough 
altruism  to  be  glad  that  others  are. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  bored  you,  and  have  helped 
you  some.  Probably  in  your  state  of  mind,  you 
may  as  well  have  been  reading  this  as  doing  any- 
thing else. 

"I  have  no  more  news.  Our  friends  return  to 
town  in  three  days.  I  go  the  day  after. 

"I  sometimes  suspect  that  the  younger  knows, 
though  neither  of  us  has  said  anything. 

"  I  have  reached  two  distinct  conclusions  as  to 
what  you  had  better  do:  I.  That  until  what  you 
dread,  is  an  accomplished  fact,  and  the  future 
beyond  any  reasonable  peradventure,  you  are  to 
do  nothing.  II.  That  the  best  place  to  do  it  in,  is 
where  you  are,  or  at  all  events  away  from  here. 
You  can  do  no  earthly  good  here,  and  you  might 
get  yourself  committed  to  something  awkward  and 
superfluous.  Whatever  can  be  done,  especially  in 
the  way  of  making  the  burden  easy  for  those  who 
bear  it,  T  shall  do.  Questions  of  what  you  shall 
do,  can  be  met  when  they  legitimately  come.  I 
need  no  better  evidence  that  you  would  be  the 
worst  man  to  handle  them  before  you  have  to, 
than  myself  realizing  now,  that  the  emotional  side 
of  the  case  so  obscured  my  own  vision  that  the  fact 
that  there's  nothing  for  you  to  do  for  months  to 
come,  was  not  perfectly  obvious  at  the  outset.  It 
is  as  simple  as  Columbus's  egg. 

"  You  know  my  love  for  you  :  try  to  trust  my 
discretion." 


CHAPTER   L. 

CAIN. 

CALMIRE'S  letters  brought  Muriel  great  relief. 
While  he  read  them,  and  went  over  each  a  second 
time  and  a  third,  he  felt  (as  he  had  felt  more  than 
once  since  he  fell  into  his  morbid  state)  that  his 
doubts  were  banished  and  could  trouble  him  no 
more.  He  was  still  far  from  realizing  that  recovery 
from  those  emotional  phases,  like  recovery  from 
any  abnormal  condition,  is  not  accomplished  sud- 
denly or  with  uniform  progress,  but  settles  down 
by  oscillations  in  both  directions,  like  a  pendulum, 
in  conformity  with  the  universal  law  which  Spencer 
has  formulated  as  the  Rhythm  of  Motion. 

He  felt  better,  however,  for  a  time,  and  the  night 
after  he  got  the  last  letter,  which  had  been  delayed 
some  days  in  the  country  post-offices,  he  started 
out  for  a  walk  beyond  the  village  in  the  moonlight. 
He  strode  along  more  like  himself  than  he  had  done 
since  he  left  Fleuvemont.  He  felt  strong  in  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  growth.  All  his  earlier  conceptions  of 
man  and  law  and  duty  seemed  to  him  like  child's  toys 
beside  those  that  he  had  been  getting  glimpses  of 
during  the  past  few  weeks.  Before,  he  had  been 
a  boy,  merely  sentimentalizing  over  the  necessities 
in  life,  as  he  did  over  its  romance:  now  he  was  a 
man,  strong  for  anything — for  renunciation,  self- 


H4  Cain. 

sacrifice,  those  great  virtues  of  which  he  had  read 
so  often,  and  professed,  at  a  safe  distance,  to  re- 
spect so  much.  But  he  had  really  thought  them 
rather  slow — of  the  same  class  of  merits  with 
those  for  which  good  marks  were  given  in  his 
school-days,  in  which  the  stupid  boys  generally 
excelled.  Never  before  having  essayed  the  prac- 
tice of  any  virtues  of  that  class,  he  had  not  realized 
how  hard  they  were,  nor  had  he  realized  how 
essential  they  were  to  the  equilibrium  of  life.  But 
now  he  saw  that  they  were  great  things,  not 
merely  easy  for  boys  born  too  poor  and  stupid  to 
have  anything  to  renounce,  but  tests  of  strength 
worthy  of  such  splendid  creatures  as  himself; 
and  he  was  rather  thankful  to  things-in-gen- 
eral for  giving  him  the  opportunity  to  make  the 
creditable  exhibition  of  himself  for  which  he  now 
felt  prepared.  Two  or  three  times  he  had  almost 
congratulated  himself  on  his  miseries, — perhaps  be- 
cause they  were  so  big  and  majestic,  or,  lately, 
perhaps  because  they  held  out  to  him  such  great 
opportunities  for  the  exercise,  and  even  the  dis- 
play, of  very  impressive  and  melodramatic  virtues. 
He  was  indeed  rather  disposed  to  congratulate  the 
universe  upon  the  opportunity  to  look  at  him. 
Faint  realizations  of  all  this  had  begun  to  dawn 
upon  him ;  but  his  instinct  was  to  banish  such  reali- 
zations, because  they  were  uncomfortable.  Yet  late- 
ly, this  old  instinct  had,  a  few  times,  been  opposed 
by  a  new  feeling  which  had  peeped  into  being;  he 
had  already  once  or  twice  wished  that  there  were 
no  temptation  to  right-doing,  as  well  as  to  wrong- 
doing,and  he  had  even  doubted  whether  there  could 


Cain.  145 

be  any  merit  in  his  readiness  to  immolate  himself, 
so  long  as  he  was  conscious  of  there  being  any; 
and — all  the  worse,  so  long  as  he  thought  of  any 
admiration  which  it  might  compel.  Then  the 
virus  of  skepticism  which  was  running  its  course 
in  his  blood,  found  its  way  to  this  virgin  spot,  and 
he  began  to  be  skeptical  of  his  own  sincerity  and 
singleness  of  purpose;  and,  next,  even  of  his  tenac- 
ity of  purpose;  and  then,  of  course,  of  the  real 
existence  of  such  qualities  anywhere. 

He  had  no  God  to  dread  or  consult,  and,  as  yet, 
no  realization  that  the  only  thing  to  depend  upon 
in  such  crises  is  one's  self — self  made  worthy  of 
reliance  and  accustomed  to  exact  it.  Therefore, 
the  big  man  with  the  white  robe  and  white  beard 
having  long  since  disappeared,  and  Self  not  yet 
having  taken  the  awful  form  of  the  Undeceivablo 
and  Unavoidable  Judge;  and  the  most  august 
object  within  sight  during  this  evening  walk  being 
the  full  moon,  of  course  the  thing  natural  to  our 
distracted  young  gentleman,  who  had  so  often 
professed  his  freedom  from  superstition,  was  to 
fall  into  a  habit  of  his  ancestors,  and  turn  in  a 
spiritof  reverence  to  said  moon  and  swear  by  it  that, 
whatever  might  come,  he  would  follow  his  duty, 
and  find  his  way  out  of  his  maze  of  troubles  in  any 
direction  where  it  might  lead. 

This  after-thought  of  finding  his  way  out,  coming 
in  so  quietly  that  he  hardly  recognized  its  advent, 
suddenly  loomed  up  before  him  like  some  unex- 
pected object  when  brooding  eyes  are  raised  from 
one's  path.  The  conception  that  duty,  blindly 
followed,  sometimes  leads  the  way  out  of  trouble, 


146  Cain. 

he  had  before  had  a  sort  of  unrealizing  notion  of; 
but  he  had  not  thought  much  about  it  one  way  or 
the  other:  he  had  not  had  any  particular  use  for 
it,  he  had  never  been  in  any  perplexity  which  he  had 
not  seen  his  way  out  of  at  a  glance,  and  which  his 
ingenuity  and  confidence  in  himself  had  not  ac- 
tually got  him  out  of  in  twenty-four  hours.  True, 
he  had  had  two  or  three  hard  and  unexpected 
knocks;  but  they  simply  had  to  be  endured,  they 
had  not,  like  this  last  one,  brought  with  them  any 
future  to  be  dreaded  or  determined,  and  his  con- 
science had  not  busied  itself  very  much  with  any 
question  of  his  own  responsibility  for  them.  But 
now  he  knew  a  misery  beside  which  he  felt,  not 
without  a  sort  of  grim  pride,  that  everything  he  had 
before  endured  was  boyish.  Here  were  the  lives 
of,  probably,  three  beings,  his  own  among  them, 
made  miserable  by  his  act  and  now  to  be  shaped 
by  his  will.  He  could  not  spare  himself  the  sweet 
agony  of  adding  Nina's  life,  as  a  fourth,  to  those 
already  involved.  Yet,  in  his  exaltation,  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  easy  to  take  the  course  of  self- 
sacrifice — to  crush  his  own  love  and  starve  Nina's 
(which,  of  course,  he  calmly  assumed  to  exist,  as  its 
complement  had  arisen  in  his  lordly  self),  and  to 
give  the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  two  beings  with 
whom  a  part  of  it  was  already  incorporated.  But 
would  this  obvious  course  be  the  best  even  for 
them  ?  Calmire  had  doubted  it,  and  Calmire  was 
just,  mercilessly  just.  But  Muriel  could  not  take 
Calmire's  advice  and  let  the  question  rest  until  the 
demands  upon  him  should  be  matured  and  estab- 
lished beyond  reasonable  peradventure:  he  was  too 


Cain.  147 

young,  though  he  did  not  know  that,  and  he  did 
not  even  know  that  to  postpone  the  question,  was 
the  part  of  wisdom — the  part,  even,  of  strength. 
He  could  not  help  some  sort  of  realization  that 
any  present  determination  must  be  premature,  and 
that  any  determination  he  could  think  of  would  be 
but  the  settling  of  one  question  by  the  raising  of  a 
host  of  others,  some  of  them  life-long.  Yet  he  felt 
that  it  must  be  determined.  And  how  ?  How  ? 

And  here,  amid  all  this  maze  of  perplexity,  he 
had  jumped  at  a  true  conception  just  as  the  earlier 
Greek  thinkers  so  often  did,  without  having  any 
clear  reasons  for  it.  He  hardly  realized  that  be- 
cause he  was  in  an  orderly  universe  with  all  its 
parts  connected  and  ceaselessly  moving,  if  he 
should  find  and  conform  himself  to  the  true  course 
of  the  motion,  not  attempting  by  mistaken  will  or 
desire  to  resist  or  divert  it,  it  would  bear  him,  if  no 
exceptional  disturbance  should  come,  to  where  he 
had  best  go.  But  this  process,  so  easy  to  describe, 
and  so  hard  to  execute,  Muriel  had  begun,  in  a 
groping  way,  to  associate  with  the  old  notion  of 
Duty.  Here  it  was,  that  old  notion,  which  he  had 
really  regarded  only  as  a  good  thing  to  versify  and 
speechify  about;  here  it  was — no  far-off  star,  but  a 
real  thing,  to  hold  on  by  and  yet  to  exert  one's 
whole  being  by — like  an  oar  when  one  rows.  That 
it  should  help  his  boat  over  these  dark  and  troubled 
waters,  he  was  resolved;  and  he  felt  from  it  a  sense 
of  support  akin,  he  realized,  to  that  which  many 
creeds  had  given  to  sufferers  and  martyrs. 

He  walked  on,  strengthened  and  reliant.  In 
with  the  rhythm  of  his  steps,  began  to  fall  an  old 


148  Cain. 

tune  which  faintly  ran  in  his  mind,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  had  thought  of  the  waters.  Soon  he 
began  to  hum  it,  and  after  a  few  paces  more,  he 
was  singing,  at  the  height  of  his  great  voice, 
"  Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep."  By  the 
time  he  reached  the  bridge,  his  burst  of  energy 
had  taxed  a  little  the  frame  already  feeling  the 
burdens  of  the  past  few  weeks,  and  he  paused  and 
leaned  on  the  parapet  and  contemplated  the  grand 
play  of  moonlight  with  waters,  and  clouds  with 
shadows. 

As  he  mused  and  sang  of  the  troubled  waves, 
again  arose  the  question,  "  What  will  the  port  be  ? 
Shall  I  get  over  ?  Can  there  be  any  peace  in  re- 
serve for  me  ?" 

Then  he  began  to  think  again.  What,  after  all, 
was  this  Duty  which  had  made  him  sing,  "Secure 
I  rest  upon  the  wave"  ?  Was  it  not  the  very  per- 
plexing thing  that  he  had  been  trying  to  deter- 
mine? It  would  guide  him  to  the  end;  but  what 
would  guide  him  to  it?  "The  greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number  !"  Well !  Here  on  one  side  were 
Minerva  and  that  other  (possible)  being,  for  whose 
life,  it  was  true,  the  responsibility  would  be  his,  but 
whose  life  was  unformed,  whose  requirements  were 
uncertain,  and  whose  possibilities  would  be  the 
average  of  his  and  Minerva's:  not,  he  bitterly  told 
himself,  the  higher  average  of  his  and  Nina's.  Yet 
that  was  sophistical  !  Who  could  prophesy  what  it 
might  be?  Who  would  have  foretold  Shakspere 
from  his  parents  ? 

The  test  of  duty  was  the  greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number.  There  on  one  side  were  Mi- 
nerva and  her  expected  child — their  expected 


Cain.  T49 

child  ;  and  he,  who  loved  children  so  dearly, 
could  not  even  wish  for  it,  though  it  was  his 
own  !  And  on  the  other  side  were  himself  and 
Nina.  Whose  good,  whose  happiness,  he 

should  like  to  know,  were  to  be  consulted  here: 
Who  were  the  greater,  or,  at  least,  the  more  impor- 
tant number?  But  this  sophistry  could  nothold  him 
long.  Whatever  his  feelings  were,  he  had  grown 
up  primarily  a  creature  of  intellect,  such  as  it  was; 
and  his  intellect  had  been  drilled  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  any  self-deception  here.  He  saw  the 
case  plainly  enough.  It  was  not  the  apparent  hap- 
piness of  the  people  immediately  interested  that 
must  determine  the  moral  quality  of  an  act.  It  was 
the  effect  that  the  general  practice  of  such  acts 
would  have  upon  the  general  happiness;  for  obvi- 
ously no  one  man  had  a  right  to  do  what  not  all 
would  have  a  right  to  do.  Human  experience  had 
fixed  some  things,  and  had  fixed  nothing  more 
clearly  than  that  the  very  existence  of  society, 
which  includes  the  possibility  of  civilization, 
which  makes  man  the  creature  he  is,  instead  of  a 
solitary  beast — all  this  depends  on  parents  taking 
care  of  their  own  children.  That  is  the  one  safe- 
guard of  education  and  morality.  "  Ah,  but  this 
is  only  one  case  !"  pleaded  poor  Muriel  with  him- 
self; and  promptly  his  just  nature  added:  "  Yes; 
and  it  is  but  one  case  if  I  kill  that  man  riding  up 
there  on  the  hill  against  the  sky,  and  take  his 
horse,  and  ride  away  from  the  whole  horrible  busi- 
ness." No  !  Temptation  could  master  him,  at 
least  it  once  could;  but  sophistry  could  not,  at 
least  not  now.  If  Minerva  Granzine  should  have 
a  child,  and  that  child  should  live,  it  was  his  busi- 


1 50  Cain. 

ness  to  take  care  of  it — not  merely  to  feed  it  and 
clothe  it,  but  to  make  of  it  a  creature  that  should 
do  at  least  its  share  for  the  common  welfare.  That 
duty  demanded  this  much,  was  clear;  that  it  might 
demand  more,  was  not  impossible,  especially  when  it 
was  backed  up  by  other  sanctions, — some  of  them 
tender,  the  thought  of  which  pained  him, — some  of 
them  beautiful,  the  thought  of  which  sickened  him 

But  broken  though  he  was,  painful  and  sickening 
things  could  not  long  possess  his  imagination,  un- 
less they  taxed  his  intellect  more  than  the  almost 
routine  rehearsal  of  the  elements  of  morality 
which  he  had  just  gone  through.  The  clouds 
were  floating,  a  little  portentously,  over  the  moon; 
but  when  one  passed,  how  doubly  bright  every- 
thing was,  in  the  sky  and  over  the  river!  Of 
course  the  well-worn  image  of  a  clouded  life  took 
possession  of  him,  and  soon  our  young  gentleman, 
who,  as  has  been  remarked,  had  so  freely  pro- 
claimed his  superiority  to  superstition,  relapsed 
into  augury.  There  was  that  great  black  cloud 
marching  up;  its  edge  might  obscure  the  moon, 
or  it  might  not.  The  moon  was  the  light  of  his 
life;  the  cloud  was  hurrying  fate.  If  the  cloud 
should  long  obscure  the  moon,  fate  would  darken  his 
life;  if  the  cloud  should  pass  by,  leaving  the  moon 
uncovered,  somehow  these  terrible  threatenings 
would  pass  by  him.  The  cloud  passed  leaving  the 
moon  clear.  He  turned  away  exultantly,  then 
called  himself  a  fool,  then  laughed,  and  walked 
briskly  toward  home. 

During  his  absence,  the  late  mail  had  been  laid 
on  his  table.  He  picked  up  the  morning  paper, 
and  after  a  time  read,  in  the  telegraphic  columns: 


Cain.  1 5 l 

Melancholy  Suicide  of  a  Student  at College. 

-,  Oct.  25,  18 — . — Soon  after  midnight,  the 


students  in  —  -  Hall  were  startled  by  a  pistol-shot 
in  the  building.  It  was  found  to  have  proceeded 
from  a  room  on  the  fourth  floor  on  the  south  entry. 
The  occupant  was  discovered  lying  on  the  floor  in 
a  pool  of  blood  coming  from  wounds  in  the  breast 
and  back.  The  ball  from  a  derringer  which  lay 
beside  him  had  gone  through  the  whole  body,  per- 
forating the  heart  in  its  passage.  Death  must  have 
been  instantaneous.  No  reason  is  assigned  for  the 
rash  act.  The  young  man  was  a  hard  student, 
though  he  had  not  studied  hard  enough  to  break 
down  his  mind.  On  his  table  were  charred  por- 
tions of  a  letter  which  appeared  to  have  been  held 
over  the  chimney  of  his  lamp,  but  there  are  not 
enough  fragments  left  to  throw  any  light  on  the 
melancholy  affair.  The  name  of  the  unfortunate 
youth  was  John  Granzeen.  He  was  from  Calmeer." 

No  "light  on  the  melancholy  affair"!  Muriel 
needed  no  light  upon  it.  "/  did  it,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing the  paper  before  him  with  a  convulsive  grasp 
and  staring  eyes.  "  /  did  it.  So  I'm  a  murderer, 
too  !" 

He  fell  into  a  chair  and  gazed  out  of  the  window. 
The  night  had  become  black.  The  poor  boy  had 
not  even  enough  experience  of  distress,  to  light  a 
cigar.  After  he  had  sat  for  ten  minutes,  he  said 
aloud:  "I  must  go  to  Uncle  Grand." 

A  train  left  soon  after  midnight,  and  by  ten 
o'clock  next  morning  he  was  in  his  uncle's  house 
in  Washington  Square. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

TANTALUS. 

THE  servant  at  the  door  told  Muriel  that  Mr.  Cal- 
mire  had  started  down  town  half  an  hour  before, 
and  that  Mrs.  John  was  in  the  house  and  had  just 
gone  up  to  dress  to  go  out. 

Muriel  gave  the  servant  his  overcoat  and  other 
traps,  and  went  into  the  parlor  and  sat  down  before 
the  fire.  He  felt  deadened  by  the  weight  upon  him. 
He  was  aroused  from  a  profound  revery  by  the 
rustle  of  a  silk  dress  near  him.  He  turned  to  greet 
Mrs.  John,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Nina 
Wahring.  She  had  come  to  walk  with  Mrs.  John. 

"  You  here  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes."  In  a  voice  with  no  more  vibration  than 
cork. 

"  This  is  not  your  place  !"  she  said  as  if  in  re- 
monstrance. 

The  untoward  had  become  so  much  a  matter  of 
course  to  him  that  he  did  not  even  notice  this  con- 
firmation of  Calmire's  suspicion  that  Nina  knew. 

She  had  a  strong  though  vague  conviction  that 
Muriel  had  no  right  with  her  while  that  other  was 
alone  in  the  world.  Meeting  him  brought  up  the 
feeling  with  double  force,  and  made  her,  with 
the  good  woman's  instinct  to  hold  a  man  to  his 

152 


Tantalus.  1 5  3 

duty,  especially  if  she  loves  him,  propose  to  turn 
him  out  of  a  house  where  he  had  a  better  right 
than  she  had.  And  of  course  a  young  man  like 
Muriel — imaginative,  intense,  dramatic,  accepted 
such  an  extreme  proposition  unquestioningly,  as  a 
perfectly  natural  element  of  an  extreme  case. 

"There  is  no  place  for  me!"  he  answered  in  the 
same  mechanical  tone. 

"There  is  one,"  she  expostulated,  "and  you 
must  go  to  it." 

"  So  I  sometimes  think,  but  the  time  is  not  yet 
come.  But  I  need  not  stay  here  to  offend  your 
sight."  His  dead  voice  might  have  come  from  a 
machine.  He  started  to  go.  To  reach  the  door  he 
had  to  walk  toward  her.  His  resolution  braced  his 
whole  frame  and  set  his  face.  He  was  as  she  first 
saw  him  at  Fleuvemont.  The  recollection  kept  her 
eyes  unconsciously  fixed  upon  him.  His  own  were 
directed  toward  the  door.  Her  head  began  to  turn 
as  he  passed;  the  slight  motion  brought  her  to  her- 
self. She  made  a  gesture,  and  said: 

"  This  is  your  home.  I  have  no  right  to  turn 
you  out." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  stay — here  or  anywhere.  I 
could  not  stay  where  I  was  yesterday.  The  curse 
of  Cain  is  upon  me.  I  must  wander." 

He  still  spoke  mechanically,  without  looking  at 
her.  Then  he  turned  and  did  look  from  his  deep 
black-rimmed  eyes  in  his  pale  face,  and  in  the 
same  monotonous  tone  uttered: 

"Good-bye." 

"  You  shall  not  go!"  she  cried.  '  "  You  are  no 
Cain  !" 


1 54  Tantalus. 

"Yes!  It  makes  no  difference,"  continued  the 
soulless  tones.  "  I  may  as  well  go.  Good-bye." 

Oh,  the  misery  of  it !  This  dead  creature — this 
thing  that  could  not  even  seize  kindness — this 
humble  thing — this,  Muriel  Calmire  !  It  was  too 
horrible.  Had  he  been  Cain  himself,  it  would  have 
moved  her. 

"  Stay  !     What  harm  can  you  do  ?" 

"Me?     Harm?     None!" 

Worse  and  worse  !  Was  Samson  shorn  and  blind  ? 

"  Then  do  stay  and  let  me  talk  to  you,"  she  ex- 
claimed, her  face  glowing  with  a  yearning  pity. 

"  No.  Perhaps  it  would  hurt  you.  Maybe  I 
too  can  feel  yet,  though  that  doesn't  matter." 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  feel!  Anything  but 
this !" 

"Well!    What  can  you  say  to  me?   Don't  stand." 

She  sank  into  a  chair.  He  put  his  hands  on  the 
back  of  one  opposite. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  she  said. 

"  No!     What  can  you  tell  me?" 

"lean  tell  you  to  resist  the  misery  you  have; 
not  to  court  more." 

"Can  there  be  any  that  I  have  not?" 

"  Yes !  That  which  I  have."  She  could  not 
withstand  the  impulse,  and  hardly  cared  to. 

"That  which  you  have  !"  His  voice  at  last  was 
human.  "  You  have  done  no  wrong." 

"Do  only  wrong-doers  suffer?"  she  asked  with  a 
sad  smile. 

"Oh,  if  'twere  only  they  who  did  !  if  'twere  only 
they  who  did  !"  he  cried.  "  Then  he  would  not 
have  killed  himself."  His  heart  was  so  full  of  his 


Tantalus.  155 

latest  pain,  that  even  its  hunger  for  her  failed  to 
feel  what  her  words  had  shown  it. 

"Who  killed  himself?"  she  asked. 

"Johnny  Granzine.     I  killed  him." 

"  You  did  not  kill  him.  His  mother  killed  him," 
she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet  ;  and  her  energy  flashed 
another  thought  through  her  mind.  "  And  I  doubt 
if  he  ever  knew  anything  connected  with  you,  to 
give  him  trouble." 

"  His  mother  killed  him  ?     How?", 

"Oh,  why  must  I  talk  to  you  of  these  terrible 
things?" 

"  Never  mind  !  I  will  go,"  he  said,  with  the 
little  thrill  all  fallen  out  of  his  voice. 

"  No,"  she  added  in  her  old  imperious  way,  "  I 
told  you  to  stay  !  Didn't  you  know  that  his 
mother  had  gone  away?" 

"  No  !     So  I  made  her  go  away  !" 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  in  that  dead  way,  and  don't  hold 
yourself  responsible  for  every  wicked  thing  that 
everybody  else  ever  did  !  She  went  away  because 
she's  a  bad  woman.  If  she  had  been  a  good  one, 
she  would  have  felt  it  doubly  her  duty  to  stay  at 
home." 

"  Why  should  Johnny  kill  himself  because  she 
went  away?" 

"  She  went  away  with  a  bad  man." 

"And  Johnny  knew  nothing  of  me?  But  then 
perhaps  his  mother  would  not  have  gone  away  if 
it  had  not  been  for  me.  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  But  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  being 
bad.  You  cannot  blame  yourself  for  that." 

"  I  set  the  ball  rolling,"  he  remonstrated.    "  True, 


1 56  Tantalus. 

I  could  not  see  where  it  was  going,"  he  added  as 
if  meditating.  "  I  could  not  know  where  all  the 
precipices  were."  He  paused  and  looked  long  in 
her  face,  and  then  said  slowly  in  low  tones,  as  if 
thinking  aloud:  "Oh,  angel  of  purity  and  good- 
ness, why  should  I  defile  your  white  soul  with 
thought  of  my  sins  ?" 

At  last  he  had  spoken  in  Muriel  Calmire's  voice, 
and  its  vibration  stirred  the  answering  chords  in 
her  soul.  They  drove  the  tears  to  her  eyes,  and 
through  them  she  looked  up  at  him,  sadly  smiling, 
and  said: 

"Those  thoughts  cannot  harm  me.  And  oh  !  I 
pity  you  so  !  I  pity  you  so  !" 

He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her  and  murmured: 

"I  have  lost  the  right  to  love  you,  but  I  have 
still  the  right  to  worship  you,  and  let  me  !  Oh,  let 
me!" 

And  without  thought,  yielding  to  the  weariness 
of  his  overburdened  soul,  he  buried  his  face,  sob- 
bing, in  her  lap. 

How  long  they  remained  thus,  neither  of  them 
cared  to  know.  But  at  last  he  seized  her  two 
hands,  kissed  them,  and  arose. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  am  ready  for  my  duty,  what- 
ever it  may  be.  When  I  falter,  I  will  think  of  you!" 

"  Oh,  Muriel,  can  that  be  right  ?   What  is  right  ?" 

"  Anything  I  can  think  of  you,  is  right  and  blessed. 
Oh  !  may  you  feel  something  of  what  you  have 
done  for  me  !" 

He  took  her  hands  in  both  of  his,  kissed  them 
long,  and  again,  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    LIT. 

OUR   ONLY    GLIMPSE   OF   TOWN. 

PERHAPS  if  life  were  not  full  of  anticlimaxes,  we 
should  not  be  able  to  stand  its  strain.  Neverthe- 
less, after  a  period  of  great  exaltation,  nobody  is 
quite  satisfied  to  be  in  the  commonplace  position 
of  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself.  Few 
things  make  great  moments  seem,  in  retrospect, 
more  unreal. 

Mr.  Muriel,  being  a  youth  of  big  impulses,  of 
course  put  himself  in  this  ridiculous  position  when 
he  left  his  beloved,  by  rushing  out  of  the  house 
without  the  slightest  idea  where  he  was  going. 
After  his  long  legs  had  carried  him  ahead  for 
some  minutes,  the  absence  of  this  idea  occurred 
to  him.  The  special  motive  to  see  his  uncle 
had  passed;  and  had  it  not,  he  would  hardly 
have  sought  an  interview  at  the  office  of  the  Cal- 
mire  factories,  in  Wall  Street.  In  fact,  he  had  not 
turned  in  that  direction,  but,  with  no  other  im- 
pulse than  habit,  had  turned  up  Fifth  Avenue,  not 
even  finding  room  in  his  distracted  mind  for  the 
notion  that  his  face  and  apparel,  after  the  experi- 
ences of  the  last  twelve  hours,  were  hardly  such 
as  he  would  wish  to  carry  up  that  proper  and 
populous  thoroughfare. 

When  he  concluded  that  he  was  not  going  to 

157 


1 5  8  On r  only  Glimpse  of  Town. 

Wall  Street,  it  naturally  occurred  to  him  to  look 
up  and  see  where  he  was  going.  He  was  ap- 
proaching Madison  Square,  and  on  all  the  great 
buildings  before  him,  save  the  club-house  (as  it 
then  was)  beyond  the  monument,  were  flags  flying  at 
half-mast.  Despite  these  profuse  emblems  of  some 
heavy  public  sorrow,  the  scene  was  a  pretty  one, — 
the  great  white  masses  of  building  at  his  left  run- 
ning up  into  the  clear  blue  sky  (which,  had  it  been 
known  to  literature  earlier,  would  have  become  pro- 
verbial as  readily  as  that  of  Italy);  the  contrast- 
ing large  red  building  between  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Broadway,  the  long  avenue  in  front  with  its  many 
spires  piercing  that  ineffable  blue;  the  great  open 
mass  of  the  same  wondrous  sky  etched  into  by  the 
naked  branches  of  the  trees  in  the  square;  and, 
most  noticeable  of  all  against  the  lovely  high 
background,  the  contrasting  colors  of  the  waving 
flags.  The  prospect  was  beautiful  and  impressive 
— the  nearest  to  a  fine  bit  of  purely  urban  scenery 
that  any  American  city  presents,  though  of  course 
vastly  inferior  to  much  in  Europe,  and  to  some 
in  America  where  more  of  Nature  has  been  left  to 
help. 

As  Muriel  looked  up  at  the  half-masted  flags,  he 
mused  :  "  Of  course!  Of  course  !  Trouble  every- 
where !  But  in  the  misfortunes  of  a  nation,  what 
does  any  man  feel  that  can  at  all  compare  with  per- 
sonal misery?  If  all  the  flags  in  the  world  meant 
mourning,  no  one  outside  of  some  bereaved  family 
would  be  suffering  as  I  suffer :  and  probably  no 
one  in  that  family  would.  What  can  Death  bring, 
to  equal  what  I  have  brought  on  myself?" 


Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town.  '  59 

A  policeman  was  on  the  corner  Muriel  was  ap- 
proaching, and  he,  being  anxious,  despite  his  own 
misery,  to  know  what  woe  had  fallen  on  the  state, 
asked  why  the  flags  were  at  half-mast.  The  man 
answered: 

"An  old  hotel-keeper  down  near  Chatham 
Square,  died  this  morning." 

Muriel  swore — really  for  the  first  time  in  two 
days  and  a  half,  then  thanked  the  man  and  turned 
down  the  avenue. 

In  a  few  moments,  he  wondered  why,  after  leav- 
ing Nina,  he  had  not,  instead  of  aimlessly  rush- 
ing out  into  the  street,  quietly  gone  up-stairs 
to  the  room  always  known  as  his,  and  gone  to 
sleep.  Although  the  Calmires  were  good  sleepers, 
no  one  of  them,  at  least  since  their  early  "  chivalric" 
Louisiana  days,  was  sufficiently  used  to  the  im- 
pression that  he  had  just  killed  a  man,  to  be  able 
to  pass  a  restful  night  with  it.  But  any  one  of 
them,  after  passing  a  restless  night,  was  pretty 
sure  soon  to  be  persuaded  by  Nature  to  recruit  the 
lost  strength — all  of  which  may  be  a  rather  long- 
winded  way  of  saying  that  Mr.  Muriel  was  sleepy. 
So,  realizing  that  Miss  Wahring  was  probably 
gone,  he  emulated  the  most  famous  of  all  the 
deeds  of  all  the  kings  of  France  with  all  their 
armies,  and  took  himself  "back  again." 

He  had  a  good  nap  on  his  lounge,  and  in  the 
afternoon,  invigorated  by  his  sleep  and  a  bath,  he 
drove  with  his  uncle,  who  had  returned  early  from 
his  office,  and  talked  over  the  future.  This  he  did 
with  a  certain  grim  calm,  suggesting  possibilities 
that  made  life  worse  than  useless  to  him, as  if  they 


1 60  Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town. 

were  simply  the  elements  of  a  mathematical  prob- 
lem.  This  the  men  of  the  Calmire  race  were  gen- 
erally able  to  do — when  they  grew  to  be  men. 

Muriel  tried  hard  to  get  from  his  uncle  an  opinion 
as  to  what  he  ought  to  do  if  everything  should 
turn  out  as,  in  due  course  of  Nature,  was  to  be  ex- 
pected; but  the  utmost  he  could  get  was:  "There 
are  two  things  certain — first,  that  you  would  be  a 
terribly  sold  man  if  you  were  to  determine  your 
whole  life  now  with  reference  to  an  expected  con- 
juncture, and  then  find  the  conjuncture  failing  to 
arise;  and  second,  as  you  have  time  to  await  the 
conjuncture  in,  you  have  time  (and  you  ought  to 
be  glad  of  it)  to  let  a  determination  shape  itself. 
Leaving  your  own  will  entirely  out  of  account, 
there  are  a  myriad  ways  in  which  a  conclusion 
may  be  shaped  for  you.  It's  pitiful  that  youngsters 
never  can  rest  in  such  a  fact,  but  must  torture 
themselves  with  curiosity  and  impatience." 

"But  waiting  is  the  one  thing  I  can't  do,"  ex- 
claimed Muriel. 

"  The  ability  to  wait,"  said  Calmire,  "  is  one  of 
the  highest  of  all  human  powers.  Don't  throw 
away  such  a  splendid  chance  to  cultivate  it." 

"Yes!  A  splendid  chance  indeed!"  gruesomely 
assented  poor  Muriel.  "  But  in  this  case,  so  many 
people  have  got  to  wait!  And  I'd  at  least  like 
to  show  that  I  have  some  sort  of  human  sym- 
pathy for  poor  Minerva.  I  sometimes  feel,"  he 
added  after  a  moment,  "as  if  it  would  be  only 
decent  in  me  to  go  and  see  her,  or  at  least  to  write 
to  her." 


Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town.  161 

"What  sensible  things  could  you  say  to  her?" 

"  I  hadn't  got  as  far  as  that,"  said  Muriel,  with  a 
half-sheepish  look  in  his  smile. 

"  I've  said  everything  to  her,"  rejoined  Calmire, 
"that  you  ought  to  say,  and  a  great  deal  more 
than  it  would  be  wise  for  you  to  say — or,  possibly, 
than  it  was  wise  for  me  to,"  he  added,  with  his 
candid  habit  (after  the  event)  not  exactly  of  self- 
mistrust,  but  of  general  mistrust  of  human  wisdom. 

"  If"  murmured  Muriel,  thinking  aloud,  "  I  ought 
to  come  up  to  the  scratch  and  marry  her,  it  would 
save  her  an  awful  lot  to  do  it  now.  And  if  I've  got 
to,  I'd  rather  plunge  and  have  it  over  with." 

'•  'If '  is  a  good  pair  of  tongs  to  handle  red-hot 
questions  with,  isn't  it?"  asked  Calmire,  and  then 
exclaimed:  "Marry  one  woman  while  loving  an- 
other! The  bravest  man  that  ever  did  that,  was  a 
coward  somewhere  back  in  his  soul — or  a  senti- 
mentalist. Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  '  over  with,'  but 
just  begun.  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "  that  here- 
tofore, you've  thought  of  things  that  make  a  noise 
and  kill,  as  the  stuff  to  test  heroes  with.  Probably 
tame  little  uncertainty  never  appeared  to  you 
dreadful  enough  for  that.  It  doesn't  make  any 
more  noise  than  bacteria  do,  but  I've  known  men 
to  do  more  cowardly  things  before  it,  than  before 
cannons.  Now  keep  up  your  pluck  to  wait.  Be- 
sides, what  did  I  tell  you  about  the  chance  of  your 
being  sold  ?" 

"  But  if  my  hara-kiri  were  done  now,"  said 
Muriel,  with  that  perverseness  which  always  sends 
the  tongue  to  an  aching  tooth,  "all  possibility  of 
awkward  conjecture  could  be  nipped  in  the  bud." 


1 62  Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town. 

Well,"  said  Calmire,  "you  must  give  me,  and 
yourself  too,  credit  for  very  little  ingenuity  if  you 
think  that  can't  be  taken  care  of.  For  instance: 
when  a  man,  after  some  years  in  Europe  or  far  Ca- 
thay, returns  with  a  wife  and  a  child  or  two,  does 
anybody  bother  over  the  exact  ages  of  the  chil- 
dren ?" 

"That's  so!"  exclaimed  Muriel.  "  There  doesn't 
seem  much  sense  in  worrying  about  that."  But 
his  exultant  tone  dropped  as  he  added,  "Yes,  the 
sepulchre  may  be  whited  over;  but  within — ! 
within — !" 

Calmire's  ingenuity  was  powerless  before  that 
problem,  and  for  some  moments  both  were  silent. 
At  length  he  said  : 

"  Yes,  Muriel,  all  our  debts  to  Nature  have  got 
to  be  paid.  But  a  wise  man  manages  liabilities 
which  bankrupt  a  fool.  The  main  thing  is  not  to 
be  staggered  by  the  debt,  but  to  use  hard  experi- 
ence to  add  to  our  resources  in  the  rest  of  life." 

"  But  I  am  bankrupt,"  declared  Muriel. 

"  Bankrupts  sometimes  recover,"  said  Calmire, 
"  and  you  are  young.  True,  the  fact  of  having  been 
bankrupt  can't  be  obliterated,  but  it  can  be  offset." 

After  another  silence  Muriel  asked:  "Do  you  see 
marriage  looming  up  as  a  possible  duty  ?" 

"  To  my  mind,"  answered  Calmire,  "  when  duty 
is  the  only  motive,  marriage  and  duty  are  contra- 
dictions in  terms.  I'm  not  wise  enough,  however, 
to  consider  all  possible  circumstances,  and  certainly 
not,  at  present,  those  of  this  case.  Be  glad  of  your 
spare  time." 


Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town.  '  63 

"  Well,  what's  the  next  step  at  this  end  of  it  ?" 
asked  Muriel. 

"  None  at  all,"  answered  Calmire,  "  or  as  near  as 
you  can  get  to  it.  Can't  you  go  to  work  at  some- 
thing ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  could  if  I  knew  my  doom.  But  I 
wouldn't  give  much  for  any  work  I'll  accomplish 
before  I  do." 

"  Well,  you're  young !"  said  Calmire,  pityingly, 
"  and  haven't  yet  learned  the  worth  of  work  as  an 
anodyne.  Perhaps  some  other  would  be  best  for 
your  case." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  deserve  any  anodyne,"  exclaimed 
Muriel.  "  I  keep  thinking  about  this  thing  all  the 
time.  If  there's  a  right  about  it,  I'll  find  it.  I  don't 
slip  up  in  my  duty  there  at  least !  The  thing  is 
never  absent  from  my  mind,  except  when  I  sleep." 

"  My  poor  boy  !"  exclaimed  Calmire,  turning  to- 
wards him.  "  My  poor  boy  !  How  in  the  world 
did  I  manage  to  forget  that  before  ?  Why,  do  you 
know  what  you're  doing  ?" 

Muriel  was  astonished  at  his  uncle's  warmth, 
but  simply  said:  "Why,  that's  the  least  I  can  do. 
I  owe  that  to  everybod)^  concerned." 

"  You  poor  boy  !  Don't  you  know  that  you're 
simply  doing  all  you  can  to  drive  yourself  crazy  ? 
That's  monomania — having  one  thing  in  mind 
all  the  time — that's  the  first  step  in  insanity. 
And  I'm  such  an  old  fool  that  I  didn't  think  to 
warn  you  against  it  before!  Yet  I  know  per- 
fectly well  that  in  all  distress,  that's  the  first  thing 
inexperienced  people  do.  I've  even  heard  a  be- 
reaved mother  say  that  she  owed  it  to  her  child's 


164  Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town. 

memory  to  blend  it  with  every  thought  of  her  life. 
What  earthly  naturalness  and  sanity  of  thought 
can  exist  under  such  conditions — every  natural 
sequence  interrupted  and  clogged  by  a  foreign  ele- 
ment ?  People  always  begin  that  way  when  they 
go  crazy.  Now  instead  of  keeping  this  thing 

in  your  mind,  try  every  reasonable  diversion  to 
keep  it  out,  as  long  as  nothing  can  be  settled  about 
it.  Why,  haven't  you  found  before  now  that  many 
a  day  you've  vainly  puzzled  yourself  tired  over 
something,  when  next  morning  the  solution  would 
come  into  your  mind  like  a  flash  ?  Other  things 
even,  the  mere  fact  that  a  question  will  stick  in 
your  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  free  attention  to  the 
other  topics  that  naturally  arise,  is  a  reason  why 
you  should  drive  it  out." 

"  Uncle  Grand,  how  old  must  a  man  get  before 
he  stops  being  a  fool  ?" 

"  Ask  some  older  man  than  I." 

"  But  I  mean,"  persisted  Muriel,  "  that  since  I 
got  into  this  trouble,  there  have  been  lots  of  things 
coming  up  like  what  you've  just  told  me,  that  seem 
plain  enough,  but  that  I  hadn't  sense  enough  to 
think  of.  Now,  how  old  must  a  fellow  get  before 
he  thinks. of  all  the  obvious  things?" 

"Ah!  You  can't  count  it  by  years!"  said  Cal- 
mire.  "  Count  it  by  troubles,  and  then  it  depends 
on  how  big  they  are.  You  know  that  there's 
pretty  good  authority  for  saying  that  if  a  man 
happens  to  be  a  downright  fool,  even  braying  in  a 
mortar  can't  cure  him." 

"  Well,  take  a  fool  of  about  my  grade  ?"  Muriel 
inquired. 


Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town.  165 

"  Is  this  really  you  ?"  Calmire  exclaimed,  turning 
toward  him.  "  Your  experience  with  the  mortar  has 
not  been  entirely  without  result.  Well,  to  answer 
your  question,  your  first  long  letter  looked  as  if 
you'd  had  about  enough  for  the  first  round,  any- 
how. But  a  man  never  gets  so  much  that  he  can't 
get  more.  Yet  when  he  gets  knocked  absolutely 
wrong-end-first,  and  has  sense  enough  to  begin  to 
work  around  to  natural  bearings  again,  he'll  have 
to  take  pretty  much  all  the  points  in  his  individual 
horizon — he'll  have  to  revise  pretty  much  every 
belief  he  ever  had — from  that  in  his  own  existence 
out  to  that  of  the  existence  of  a  Law  in  Nature. 
And  the  queer  thing  is  that  nearly  every  time  he 
thinks  he's  made  a  new  point,  it  will  simply  be  a 
new  side  of  some  one  of  his  old  commonplace 
ideas." 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Muriel,  "  I  feel  so  steady  that 
I  think  I  must  have  got  around  all  right — that  I 
needn't  bother  my  head  anymore,  but  need  simply 
wait  until  some  new  fact  arises,  and  then  do,  and 
keep  cool  about  it.  And  then  a  little  later,  I  find 
myself  in  a  perfect  hell-caldron  of  questions  and 
anxieties." 

"That's  all  natural,"  said  Calmire.  "Your 
nerves  will  help  themselves  to  a  rest  occasionally: 
'.f  they  didn't,  you'd  go  crazy,  and  that's  not  our 
way;  but  just  as  soon  as  they  have  had  a  respite, 
they  will  want  to  get  up  and  wrestle  with  the  un- 
certainties again  as  long  as  there  are  uncertain- 
ties before  you.  You  can  save  yourself  lots  of 
trouble  by  diverting  your  nerves  to  other  things, 


1 66  Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town. 

instead  of  encouraging  them  into  this  useless 
struggle,  as  I've  been  fool  enough  to  let  you  do." 

"Oh  don't  keep  on  scolding  yourself  so,  Uncle 
Grand.  Are  you  responsible  for  all  my  folly  and 
inexperience  ?" 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  of  charity  for  a  young  fool, 
Muriel,  but  if  there's  anything  I  hate,  it's  an  old 
one,  and  I  sometimes  fear  that  that's  just  what  I'm 
getting  to  be." 

And  Muriel  had  the  first  hearty  laugh,  though  a 
very  short  one,  that  he  had  had  for  many  a  day,  as 
he  looked  at  the  splendid  man,  erect,  alert,  per- 
fectly turned  out,  tooling  his  fiery  horses  along 
with  the  unconscious  grace  of  young  Phoebus 
Apollo. 

Next  they  fell  to  talking  about  what  Muriel 
had  better  do  with  himself  for  the  immediate 
present.  Solitude  through  the  Winter  in  the 
monotonous  country  place  where  he  had  lately 
been  immured,  would  not,  his  uncle  was  satisfied, 
be  good  for  him.  As  for  Muriel  himself,  he  was  in- 
different on  all  points  except  that  he  did  not  want 
to  remain  in  New  York, subject,  although  he  said 
nothing  about  that,  to  experiencing  and  inflicting 
such  meetings  as  that  of  the  morning.  As  it  was, 
Muriel  had  led  his  uncle  to  drive  outside  of  the 
park,  in  order  to  lessen  the  chance  of  imposing  a 
sight  of  himself  on  Nina.  He  would  himself  have 
been  glad  enough  of  the  sweet  torture  of  seeing 
her  again,  but  at  last  he  had  grown  able  to  think 
of  more  sides  than  his  own. 

As,  then,  he  wanted  to  avoid  both  New  York  and 
the  country,  and  in  fact  everything  that  he  had 


Our  only  Glimpse  of  Town.  1 67 

ever  known,  except  his  uncle,  the  obvious  thing  for 
him  was  to  go  to  Europe  with  a  friend  who  was 
soon  to  start  for  a  saunter  from  Pau  to  Naples. 
This  was  not  at  first  obvious  to  him,  though,  and  he 
said  some  grim  things  about  a  man  in  his  situation 
going  on  "  a  pleasure- trip."  Calmire  told  him  not 
to  sentimentalize,  though  if  it  would  relieve  his 
inflamed  conscience,  he  might  regard  the  trip  as  a 
needed  educational  one.  At  last  he  decided  to  go, 
and  to  come  back  in  time  for  his  impending  re- 
sponsibilities. The  existing  ones,  his  uncle  insisted 
on  managing  himself. 

One  thing  surprised  Calmire  a  little  and  pleased 
him  immensely.  Muriel  had  not  once  evinced  the 
slightest  inclination  to  shirk.  His  only  desire  had 
been  to  determine  what  his  responsibilities  might 
be;  and  while  Calmire  knew  that  this  could  not 
endure  with  absolute  consistency,  it  made  him 
realize  more  than  anything  else  could  have  done, 
what  the  recent  weeks  had  effected  in  Muriel. 

Notwithstanding  his  usual  unreserve,  Muriel 
had  not  let  his  uncle  know  that  he  had  even  seen 
Nina  that  morning.  Everything  about  that  inter- 
view was  too  sacred  for  any  soul  that  had  not  felt 
it.  Down  in  the  bottom  of  Muriel's,  too  deep  even 
for  his  own  thorough  realization,  the  memory  of  it 
had  already  assumed  some  of  the  awful  sacredness 
of  death. 


CHAPTER   LIIL 

WHERE    MAN    MAY    GO. 

IT  may  well  be  supposed  that  the  tender  shoots 
of  Nina's  new  convictions — shoots  that,  to  most  of 
the  contemporary  world,  are  hopelessly  juiceless, 
had  not  yielded  her  during  the  few  days  since  Cal- 
mire  last  tended  them,  all  the  tonics  needed 
against  her  own  harassing  thoughts,  not  to  speak 
of  such  a  strain  upon  her  as  the  interview  with 
Muriel.  Naturally  the  first  fervor  of  what  she 
might  perhaps  have  been  ready  to  call  her  con- 
version, had  somewhat  cooled,  as  such  fervors 
always  do,  and  her  former  habits  of  mind  were  as- 
sailing it,  as  such  habits  always  do,  and  bringing 
her,  if  not  intellectually,  at  least  emotionally,  back 
to  the  dark  borders  of  her  skepticism.  The  com- 
munion with  the  Infinite  in  which  her  soul  had 
been  immersed  on  that  wondrous  morning,  had 
not  since  been  so  complete,  for  Nature  had  not 
since  revealed  itself  to  her  with  such  inspiring  un- 
reserve. At  moments,  she  had  known  something 
of  the  feeling  which  had  so  exalted  and  sustained 
her;  but  whatever  be  one's  best  affections — be  he 
lover  of  a  cult,  or  of  man,  or  woman  either,  or  of 
Nature,  or  of  All,  those  moments  of  supreme  exal- 
tation are  vouchsafed  but  seldom.  Nina  was  not 
yet  the  matured  creature  who  has  outgrown  the 

168 


Where  Man  may  Go.  169 

yearning  for  parental  care.  Though  no  girl  of  a 
loving  disposition  ever  was  naturally  more  inde- 
pendent, her  independence  was  not  yet  fully  de- 
veloped; and  moreover,  she  was  of  a  loving  dis- 
position— to  the  extent  that  made  a  man's  robuster 
intellect  the  natural  complement  of  hers;  and  she 
had  got  into  the  habit  of  turning  toward  Calmire 
as  most  girls  turn  toward  the  ordinary  modes  of  re- 
ligious consolation.  She  now  looked  with  positive 
dread  for  a  communication  from  him  postponing 
on  some  pretext  but  the  real  one — Muriel's  presence 
in  town,  a  chat  she  was  hoping  for  the  next 
evening.  It  had  been  arranged  that  she  and 
her  mother  were  to  run  around  and  dine  with  Cal- 
mire and  Mrs.  John,  who,  of  course,  was  his  guest. 

No  postponement  was  decreed,  however,  but  Nina 
felt  sure  that  Muriel  would  not  be  there,  and  she 
was  glad  to  go.  After  dinner,  Mrs.  Wahring,  who 
somehow,  particularly  hated  smoke  when  the  en- 
durance of  it  would  force  any  woman  but  Nina  to 
keep  Calmire  company  over  his  cigar,  declined  his 
invitation  to  that  function  of  familiar  friendship, 
dragged  Mrs.  John  into  the  drawing-room  with  her, 
and  left  Calmire  and  Nina  together  before  the 
dining-room  fire. 

Calmire  knew  well  enough  that  Nina  would 
need  her  new  lessons  again  and  again  before  they 
could  become  part  of  her  working  fibre,  and  was 
only  waiting  to  help  her  on.  So  he  began: 

"  Well,  how  do  our  new  philosophies  progress  ?" 

If  he  had  studied  for  a  good  opening  for  her, 
as  perhaps  he  had,  he  could  not  have  done  better. 
The  question  was  almost  impersonal. 


1 70  Where  Man  may  Go. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  I  get  myself  terribly 
mixed  up.  I  think  I  must  be  very  incapable  of 
confining  my  mind  to  those  hard  certain  truths  you 
seem  to  content  yours  with,  and  keeping  it  away 
from  the  things  you  call  imaginary,  and  hate  so." 

"  It's  awful  for  a  poor  old  man  to  feel  himself 
such  an  ogre  in  the  eyes  of  a  nice  girl,"  he  said, 
laughing.  "  But  seriously  now  :  do  you  think  my 
soul  is  only  filled  with  'hard*  things?" 

"  It's  the  tenderest,  gentlest  soul  a  man  ever 
had  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  But  your  mind  is  so  fear- 
fully rigid  beyond  a  certain  point." 

"You  know,"  said  he,  "or  perhaps  you  don't, 
that  I  think  intellectual  integrity,  and  even  com- 
mon every-day  honesty,  depend  almost  as  much  on 
the  mind  as  upon  the  conscience,  possibly  more.  I 
don't  mean  upon  the  range  of  mind,  but  upon  its 
firmness  in  whatever  principles  its  range  includes. 
I  suspect  that  most  moral  breakdowns  are  preceded 
by  intellectual  juggling — by  the  person  convincing 
himself  that  the  wrong  course  is  right.  No!  in 
men  cursed  by  'the  malady  of  thought,'  strength 
depends  largely  upon  judgment.  Don't  blame  one 
for  trying  to  keep  his  judgment  firm." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  blame  you.  But  there's  some- 
thing awful  in  you:  my  mind  seeks  to  roam  up 
the  pleasant  valleys  of  my  old  beliefs,  and  you 
loom  up  before  me  like  a  great  precipice." 

Calmire  laughed  again,  though  with  a  certain 
serious  satisfaction.  After  a  little  silence,  he  said: 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  lecture  some  more  ?" 

"I  always  like  to  hear  you  talk.  What  do  you 
want  to  talk  about  now  ?" 


Where  Man  may  Go.  \  7  I 

"You're  very  kind,"  he  answered.  "I  know 
that  I  must  sometimes  be  an  awful  bore,  because 
I'm  so  much  interested  in  some  things  that  are 
not  generally  found  interesting.  This  isn't  one 
of  those  cases,  though,"  he  said  with  smiling 
gallantry,  "for  I  want  to  talk  now  because  I'm 
interested  in  you.  Well,  if  you  care  to  hear 

me,  I'd  like  to  tell  you  something  about  the 
limits  of  real  thought — where  the  precipices  ought 
to  stand,  or  rather  where  they  do  stand — all 
around  the  little  circle  of  our  capacities;  and  where 
we  ought  to  realize  that  they  stand,  so  that  we  may 
not  blindly  dash  ourselves  against  them,  but  sur- 
mount them, — or  rather  remove  them — so  far  as  we 
can,  by  the  slow  processes  that  Nature  provides." 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  turning  her  chair  a  little 
more  directly  toward  him.  "  You're  very  good  to 
me!" 

"Ah,  you're  the  sort  of  pupil  it's  a  pleasure  to 
be  good  to!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  leaned  forward 
and  knocked  the  ashes  of  his  cigar  on  the  hearth. 

Often  afterward,  she  thought  of  how  noble  he 
looked  as  he  made  that  little  commonplace  mo- 
tion— the  fire  throwing  a  certain  radiance  over  his 
strong  features,  and  glowing  in  the  kind  eyes,  and 
his  grand  form  seeming  so  powerful,  outlined  by 
the  close-fitting  evening  suit,  and  emphasized  by 
the  white  expanse  over  the  chest. 

"  Now  the  nearest  of  those  precipices,"  he  went  on, 
"  is  one  that  you  will  find  it  very  hopeful  to  contem- 
plate. It  is  the  inscrutability  of  consciousness.  To 
understand  a  thing,  you  know,  is  simply  to  find  in  it 
particulars  identical  with  particulars  in  things  we  al- 


1 72  Where  Man  may  Go. 

ready  are  familiar  with.  Now  we  can't  understand 
consciousness,  for  as  long  as  our  minds  are  what 
they  are,  we  cannot  get  at  it.  It  is  behind  all  our 
thoughts  and  feelings,  both  as  it  originates  them  or 
receives  them  from  without,  as  a  mirror  is  behind 
the  pictures  it  sends  forth;  but  we  can't  analyze  con- 
sciousness as  we  can  a  mirror.  If  we  think  of  it,  it  is 
behind  that  thought.  If  we  think  a  second  thought, 
to  the  effect  that  consciousness  is  behind  the  first 
one,  consciousness  is  still  behind  that  second  one, 
and  so  it  would  inevitably  be  behind  a  never-ending 
series — we  could  think  forever,  and  as  each  thought 
should  take  a  step  toward  consciousness,  con- 
sciousness would  take  a  step  backward:  we  could 
never  get  at  it  to  compare  it  with  anything  else,  so 
wecan  never  understand  it.  Our  minds  are  made  up 
of  its  phenomena,  just  as  the  external  world  is  made 
up  of  the  phenomena  of  the  other  Inscrutable  Verity; 
but  we  cannot  get  at  the  Verity  behind  thoughts  any 
more  than  we  can  get  at  the  Verity  behind  things." 

"  But  what  is  there  hopeful  in  all  that  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"Simply  this:  that  as  we  can't  know  anything 
about  consciousness,  we  can't  have  the  slightest  evi- 
dence that  it  ever  dies.  We  know  that  the  body 
with  its  nervous  system — the  apparatus  that  acts 
upon  consciousness,  and  through  which  conscious- 
ness acts,  does  die — that  the  combination  of  ever- 
changing  particles  which  makes  up  that  apparatus 
is  eventually  resolved;  but  as  we  know  nothing 
about  consciousness,  we  have  no  evidence  whatever 
that  it  may  not  survive  independently  of  the  appa- 
ratus, or  connected  with  new  apparatus  which  our 
present  senses  are  unable  to  recognize." 


Where  Man  may  Go.  173 

"Why  then,"  exclaimed  Nina  with  a  beaming 
face,  "  we  are  immortal." 

"  Perhaps:  but  don't  be  too  fast.  I've  only  told 
you  there's  not  the  slightest  evidence  against  it. 
But  I'm  bound  to  tell  you  that  there's  not  the 
slightest  evidence  for  it.  Yet  there  is  a  little  evi- 
dence that  in  time  may  make  for  it,  for  there  is 
something  faintly  visible  that  may  mean  that  con- 
sciousness is  independent  of  the  body — that  it  can 
leave  and  return  to  the  same  body.  I  don't  mean 
merely  in  fainting  and  sleep,  when  you  might  call 
consciousness  latent,  but  in  other  circumstances, 
where  two,  or  even  three  consciousnesses  have 
alternated  in  the  same  body.  There  are  several 
cases  of  people  who  have  lost  all  recollection  of 
their  past,  and  all  intellectual  and  moral  resem- 
blance to  their  former  selves  ;  and  who  have  had 
to  begin  life  over  again  with  new  minds,  new 
characters,  and  new  educations.  The  new  con- 
sciousness sometimes  has  been  an  improvement, 
and  sometimes  the  reverse — sometimes  with  more 
intelligence,  and  better  dispositions,  and  sometimes 
with  worse.  It  has  been  precisely  as  if  there  were 
a  different  soul  in  the  same  body.  In  many  such 
cases,  probably  most,  the  first  soul  has  returned 
after  a  while,  at  the  same  point  in  memory  and 
faculty  where  it  left ;  in  some  cases,  the  second 
has  come  a  second  time,  and  in  some  cases  there 
has  been  even  a  third,  each  existing  and  coming 
and  going  independently  of  the  others.  Hyp- 

notic suggestion  has  been  able  quite  frequently 
to  substitute  the  second  soul,  and  sometimes  the 
third." 


1 74  Where  Man  may  Go. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  Nina  interrupted.  "  How 
can  that  be  ?" 

"  Why,"  Calmire  explained,  "  you  know  that  a 
hypnotizer  can  make  his  subject  fancy  almost  any- 
thing :  why  shouldn't  he  make  him  fancy  himself 
somebody  else  ?  And  by  renewing  such  fancies 
with  a  good  deal  of  completeness  and  uniformity, 
the  subject  can  be  made  at  will  to  take  on  virtually 
a  new  character,  or  even  (as  far  as  experiment 
has  got)  either  of  two  new  characters.  In  either 
of  these  ways — either  by  natural  processes  which 
we  don't  yet  fully  understand  (though  injuries 
and  shocks  help  account  for  some  of  them),  or 
by  hypnotic  suggestion,  slow,  stingy,  timid  people 
have  been  changed  into  quick,  liberal,  dashing 
ones,  each  either  with  no  recollection  of  the 
other,  or,  if  with  a  recollection,  only  as  of  an- 
other person.  As,  however,  physical  changes  can 
produce  these  changes  of  soul,  its  identity  with 
the  body  would  seem  to  be  indicated;  but  that  is 
offset  by  the  fact  that  hypnotic  suggestion  from 
another  soul  can  produce  them  too,  and  perhaps 
by  the  other  fact  that  a  very  slight  change  in  body 
effects  the  total  change  in  consciousness.  But 
the  subject  is  unending:  you  can  find  more  about 
it  in  the  books.  The  point  I  want  to  give  you  now 
is  that  there  is  something  that  may  look  a  little 
like  evidence  for  the  soul  existing  independently 
of  the  body.  Don't  ignore  it  entirely,  but  don't  at- 
tach much  weight  to  it.  There  is  also  a  faint  possi- 
bility that  that  possible  new  hypnotic  sense  may 
yet  get  hold  of  more  evidence.  If  it  does,  possibly 
there  may  then  be  some  indication  of  the  persistence 


Where  Man  may  Go,  '75 

of  consciousness  later  than  the  apparatus,  as  well 
as  for  its  independence  of  the  apparatus.  But  this 
is  getting  too  much  like  moonshine.  Yet  we  may 
be  on  the  way  toward  something  substantial,  for 
already  the  evidence  regarding  the  persistence  of 
consciousness,  seems  at  least  even,  while  before  the 
discovery  of  the  persistence  of  force,  I  think  the  evi- 
dence was  distinctly  against  that  of  consciousness." 

"  How  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"Why,  I  don't  see  what  there  was  to  do  then, 
when  the  force  that  moved  a  man's  body  and  brain 
stopped  moving  them,  but  to  believe  that  the  force 
was  annihilated." 

"  Why,  isn't  it  ?"  queried  Nina.  "  What  becomes 
of  it  ?" 

"Weren't  you  lectured  enough  last  Summer  to 
know  that  something  must  become  of  it  ?  Why,  it 
simply  takes  up  other  work.  The  share  of  force 
that  the  organism  was  constantly  drawing  from 
the  air  and  food-supply  is  left  free  for  other  or- 
ganisms; and  that  already  contained  in  the  body 
itself,  goes  to  resolving  the  body  into  its  elements 
— setting  them  free  for  new  combinations;  and  in 
doing  that,  the  force  is  turned  into  heat  and  ab- 
sorbed into  the  universal  heat  ready,  probably,  to 
be  converted  into  some  new  mode  of  force:  though 
that's  farther  than  we've  yet  been  able  to  follow  it. 
But  thirty  years  ago,  people  didn't  know  that,  and 
they  had  to  believe,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  that  when  a 
man  died,  what  were  called  his  '  vital  forces '  ceased 
to  exist.  And  as  they  had  to  believe  that,  they  had 
to  believe,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  that  his  consciousness 
ceased  to  exist  too,  unless  they  were  simply  going 


1 76  Where  Man  may  Go. 

to  believe  against  their  senses  under  the  inspiration 
of  a  few  great  geniuses; — and  you  find  a  myriad  of 
great  fools  laying  claim  to  the  same  inspirations. 
But,  for  that  matter,  it  won't  do  to  trust  only  to 
the  geniuses:  the  hypnotic  sense,  if  there's  any 
such  inspiration  to  be  had  through  if,  is  by  no 
means  restricted  to  geniuses." 

"  Well,  there's  room  to  hope,  anyhow,"  said  Nina. 

"  Most  certainly,  if  you'll  keep  your  hopes  within 
reason.  But  see  how  strongly  Nature  enjoins  us 
to  limit  them — to  regard  them  as  conjectures — hy- 
potheses; not  to  found  faiths  and  practices  upon 
them!  Reflect  how  doing  that,  has  led,  probably, 
to  more  evils  than  any  other  blunder  of  the  race. 
We're  here  to  mind  our  business  here.  And  now 
let's  go  on  and  find  out  a  little  more  definitely  what 
our  business  is,  or  at  least  what  its  limits  are. 
Let's  accept  the  inscrutability,  with  our  present 
faculties  and  present  evidence,  of  the  question  of 
consciousness  continuing  or  ceasing,  as  we  accept 
the  inscrutability  of  its  very  existing.  So,  as 
we  can't  understand  it  in  itself,  let's  go  to  its  phe- 
nomena, as  we  have  to  go  to  the  phenomena  of 
that  other  Inscrutability  behind  the  external  world. 
1  said  a  moment  ago,  that  to  understand  a  thing  is  to 
find  a  resemblance  in  it  to  something  that  we  were 
previously  familiar  with.  The  degree  of  our  under- 
standing, of  course,  depends  upon  the  number  of 
such  resemblances  that  we  find.  I  showed  you, 
too,  that  that's  why  we  can't  understand  conscious- 
ness, and  yet  there's  just  one  particular  in  which 
we  can  see  that  it  resembles  something  else." 

"I've  caught  it!"   cried   Nina,  her   bright  face 


Where  Man  may  Go. 

lighting  up.  "I've  caught  it!  You  just  showed 
it!  The  verity  behind  the  inner  world  is  inscru- 
table, the  verity  behind  the  outer  world  is  in- 
scrutable: the  soul  is  like  God!" 

"  But  that's  merely  in  a  negative  particular," 
said  Calmire.  "  There's  a  positive  one." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I've  told  you.     See  if  you  can't  think  it  up." 

"When  did  you  tell  me?" 

"  A  moment  ago — as  far  as  the  soul's  part  goes." 

Nina  meditated  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Calmire,  "  that  consciousness, 
in  a  degree,  originates  the  phenomena  of  the  world 
within.'' 

"  Oh  yes!"  cried  Nina.  "  So  does  God  originate 
those  of  the  world  without.  So  in  our  own  little 
worlds,  each  of  us  is  a  God!  We  create!  But  I'm 
not  so  glad  of  the  mere  fact  that  we  create,  as  I  am 
that  doing  so  makes  us  like  the  great  God." 

"  Yet,"  said  Calmire,  smiling  at  her  pretty  en- 
thusiasms, but  more  at  her  quick  recoil  from  self- 
aggrandizement,  "consciousness  is  nothing  without 
the  external  world :  the  German  didn't  evolve 
much  of  a  camel." 

"  No!"  said  Nina.  "  The  external  world  of  God 
must  supply  the  sources  of  all  right  thoughts. 
We're  absolutely  dependent  on  God.  I  like  that 
too.  '  Our  wills  are  ours  to  make  them  thine.'  " 

"I  don't  know  about  'absolutely  dependent,' 
Nina.  You  know  it  seemed  to  us  once — talking  at 
Fleuvemont,  that  some  power,  and  an  increasing 
power,  of  controlling  the  universe,  is  possessed  by 
man.  But  here  we  are  in  paradox  again  :  paradox  is 


1 78  Where  Man  may  Go. 

the  alarm-bell  that  always  sounds  when  our  reason- 
ing is  getting  beyond  our  bounds.  You  see  that 
as  soon  as  we  assert  free-will,  we  assert  an  effect 
without  a  cause — which  is  something,  you'll  find 
if  you  try,  that  you  can't  think.  One  of  the  pret- 
tiest demonstrations  of  evolution  is  that  our  ex- 
perience of  it  is  so  absolutely  without  exception, 
that  our  minds  are  actually  incapable  of  think- 
ing of  anything  as  not  an  effect  from  a  cause." 

Nina  reflected  a  moment  and  then  said,  "Yet 
you  believe  in  free-will,  Mr.  Calmire  ?" 

"  Yes — as  I  believe  in  consciousness  and  in  the 
external  Ineffable  Power — not  attempting  to  un- 
derstand it.  In  one  sense,  by  the  way,  believing 
in  free-will  is  not  believing  in  an  effect  without  a 
cause,  for  we  can  refer  it  to  consciousness  as  a 
cause;  but  that  puts  our  paradox  only  a  step  farther 
back,  for  you  can't  refer  consciousness  back. 
Even  if  you  think  of  it  as  started  by  the  Source  of 
everything  else,  you  can't  help  thinking  of  it  as 
something  now  distinct  and  independent  of  its 
source.  But  we're  getting  a  long  way  off  from 
my  attempt  to  indicate  how  our  understanding  is 
bounded.  At  Fleuvemont,  we  discussed  what 
thought  is — what  the  structure  of  our  minds;  and 
you  just  said,  very  properly,  that  the  external  world 
of  God  gives  the  sources  of  all  right  thoughts. 
Now  all  our  talk  has  made  it  obvious  that 
legitimate  thinking  is  only  thinking  that  can  be, 
by  sound  logic,  traced  back  to  sensation — to  ex- 
perience, direct  or  ancestral.  And  so,  beliefs  which 
contradict  experience,  very  seldom  have  any  foun- 
dation: though,  as  experience  is  imperfect,  a  few 


Where  Man  may  Go.  1 79 

may  have  had.  Experience  is,  however,  our  only 
test:  though,  like  all  our  possessions,  it's  imper- 
fect. It  follows,  then,  that  those  precipices  we 
were  talking  about,  which  surround  human  capaci- 
ty, stand  at  the  borders  of  experience;-  and  the  only 
way  to  move  them  farther  away,  is  to  enlarge  the 
borders  of  experience.  Or,  to  change  the  meta- 
phor, the  boundary  of  our  little  sphere  of  life  is 
translucent  but  not  transparent:  it  is  penetrated 
by  some  of  the  light  from  the  surrounding  Infinity, 
but  we  cannot  see  what  is  outside,  and  all  our 
speculations  on  it  are  vain  until  experience  con- 
firms them.  Still  we  can  enlarge  the  sphere,  but 
only  by  learning  the  laws  of  its  constitution, and 
following  them." 

"  But  what,"  asked  Nina,  "  is  meant  by  that 
phrase:  '  the  scientific  uses  of  the  imagination'  ?" 

"  Why  of  course  the  imagination  can  conjecture 
from  the  data  of  experience,  as  to  the  directions  in 
which  experience  can  be  wisely  enlarged.  But  our 
conjectures  should  be  in  the  directions  experience 
points  out.  The  attempted  short-cuts  in  other 
directions  make  up  the  great  mass  of  the  race's 
wasted  effort,  and  have  led  to  probably  its  greatest 
misfortunes." 

"Yes,"  persisted  Nina,  "that  may  all  be  true  in 
science  and  philosophy.  But  how  can  we  be  con- 
tent to  wait  with  such  terrible  mysteries  before 
us  in  life  itself?" 

"  Nothing  can  be  true  in  philosophy  unless  it's 
true  '  in  life  itself,'  and  one  great  function  of 
philosophy  is  to  make  us  content  before  all  mys- 
teries— that  is,  content  to  wait  and  study  them. 


Where  Man  may  Go. 

But  just  what  kind  of  mysteries  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  take  that  case  of  poor  Charley  Staller. 
He  was  a  splendid  fellow — good,  capable,  support- 
ing his  old  mother  finely,  engaged  to  one  of  the 
nicest  girls  hi  town,  respected  by  everybody,  hon- 
orable, useful.  Now  why  should  he  be  cut  off  so  sud- 
denly and  terribly,  and  lots  of  young  men  not  worth 
their  salt  be  left  to  grow  old  at  somebody-else's 
expense  and  discomfort  ?  Indeed,  indeed,  Mr.  Cal- 
mire,  much  as  I  respect  all  your  philosophy — much, 
perhaps  I  may  say,  as  it  has  helped  me,  I'm  afraid  it 
can't  help  a  great  deal  before  a  mystery  like  that." 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Calmire,  "I  didn't  know 
there  was  any  mystery  about  it.  The  poor  boy 
broke  his  neck,  didn't  he  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Chasing  an  anise-seed  bag  over  a  fence  that 
was  too  high  for  his  horse  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Doctor  didn't  find  anything  irregular  about  it, 
did  he?" 

"  No." 

"Then  where's  the  mystery?  Boys  will  jump 
fences,  and  even  an  old  fool  like  me  is  known  to 
sometimes.  I  can't  see  anything  mysterious  when 
we  get  our  necks  broken." 

"  Oh,  you're  teasing  me  again,  Mr.  Calmire  ! 
You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  you'd  put  it  to  me  in  your  own 
words." 

"Why!"  answered  Nina,  "  it's  so  mysterious  that 
God  should  permit  such  an  awful  thing  to  happen. 
Such  a  mystery  is  too  terrible  not  to  cry  out  against." 


Where  Man  may  Go.  181 

"  I  thought,"  said  Calmire  quietly,  "  that  '  God ' 
was  liberal  enough  to  let  us  have  a  good  deal 
of  our  own  way,  and  that  it  was  the  boy  and  his 
horse  that  made  it  happen.  But  of  course  if  you 
want  to  put  the  responsibility  back  on  the  same 
God  that  sent  your  boat  down  on  Courtenay,  you 
can  make  it  as  mysterious  as  you  please.  But  then 
it's  you  who  are  reading  the  mystery  into  Nature; 
it  isn't  really  there.  You  make  that  sort  of  a  God 
out  of  your  imagination,  and  then  think  it  strange 
that  you  haven't  made  him  to  fit  the  facts  of  the 
Universe.  Of  course  you  can  put  a  God  behind 
anything  if  you  want  to;  but  you'll  find  yourself 
no  better  off  when  you  come  to  account  for  his 
ways.  Your  mind  can't  make  a  God  consistent  with 
the  facts,  nobody's  mind  ever  did.  You  know  lots 
of  people  from  the  Greeks  down  to  Stuart  Mill  have 
tried  to  account  for  the  way  things  get  mixed  here, 
by  the  assumption  that  this  planet,  or  this  system, 
is  governed  by  a  viceroy  of  limited  powers,  with 
Almighty  God  behind  him." 

"  Well  !"  said  Nina,  "  if  the  god  behind  him  is 
almighty,  why  doesn't  he  enable  his  viceroy  to 
govern  perfectly  ?" 

"  Good  girl  !"  exclaimed  Calmire.  "  There  goes 
the  alarm-bell  again,  you  see  !  You're  beginning 
to  realize,  aren't  you?,  that  through  all  our  talks 
(and  always,  for  that  matter,)  whenever  anything 
counter  to  experience  is  assumed,  reasoning  on  it 
leads  to  paradox.  Everybody  who  does  that  sort 
of  thing  gets  into  trouble,  and  it's  well  to  watch 
out  for  the  alarm.  If  only  people  would  realize 
what  it  means,  and  stop  !" 


1 82  Where  Man  may  Go. 

"  But,"  said  Nina,  "  those  who  have  perfect  faith 
don't  get  into  trouble." 

"  '  Perfect  faith/  ''  answered  Calmire,  "  is  perfect 
confession  that  one  knows  nothing  about  it,  and  is 
willing  to  leave  it  alone.  That's  my  position  ex- 
actly." 

"Yet,"  expostulated  Nina,  "you  show  me  that 
there  is  a  God,  and  a  spiritual  world.  And  when 
we  began  talking  to-night,  you  showed  me  grounds 
for  faith  in  immortality." 

"Well,  I  haven't  professed  to  know  anything 
about  them,  have  I,  except  so  far  as  they  are  re- 
vealed in  Nature  and  humanity?  And  as  to  im- 
mortality, don't  call  that  faith,  Nina.  It's  not  as 
clear  as  the  other  two.  Call  it  hope  if  you  want 
to-,  but  better  still,  leave  it  alone  if  you  can,  and 
confine  yourself  to  your  life  here.  You'll  find 
enough  to  do,  and  doing  it  is  the  best  preparation 
we  can  conceive  for  more  life  Beyond  the  pre- 

cipices which  surround  us,  no  man  has  ever  been, 
no  instrument  or  formula  has  ever  reached,  and 
reasonable  belief  is  impossible.  The  beliefs  men 
have  manufactured  without  evidence — like  that  in 
an  anthropomorphic  God,  perfectly  powerful,  per- 
fectly good  and  perfectly  just,  who  is  all  the  time 
conniving  at  evil  and  injustice — contradict  them- 
selves and,  sooner  or  later,  make  trouble.  Nature 
tells  us,  if  she  tells  us  anything,  that  we  have  no 
business  with  them." 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

MAN'S    RANGE     ENOUGH    FOR   MAN. 

NINA  sat  silent  a  good  while  and  then  said: 
"  I've  got  to  get  used  to  these  thoughts.  At 
times  lately,  I  have  realized  more  than  I  ever 
dreamed  before,  of  the  significance  of  the  universe; 
but  what  you  have  been  saying  to-night  makes  me 
realize  more  than  I  ever  dreamed  before,  of  the 
littleness  of  our  share  in  it.  Instead  of  lifting  me 
up,  you  have  cast  me  down." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  old,  old  trouble  of  looking  at  it  in 
the  wrong  way,"  he  answered.  "  You're  oppressed 
by  old  ideas  of  significance  and  insignificance — of 
big  and  little.  Now  while  such  ideas  are  an  es- 
sential part  of  our  buying  and  selling  and  build- 
ing, and  even  of  our  studying  and  investigating — 
in  short,  of  all  the  details  included  in  our  lives, 
when  we  try  to  apply  them  to  that  Infinity  in 
which  our  lives  are  included,  they  begin  to  lose 
their  meaning.  Our  limited  minds  can  only  go  a 
limited  way  in  those  questions.  You  say  that 
you  are  cast  down  because  our  share  in  the  uni- 
verse is  so  limited.  Yet  you  can't  even  think 
of  our  having  an  unlimited  share  in  it;  you 
can  put  in  words  some  such  idea,  but  all  the 
same,  it  will  be  a  false  idea — what  it's  getting 
the  fashion  to  call  a  pseud-idea.  Place  your 
self,  in  imagination,  beyond  the  farthest  star 

183 


1 84  Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man. 

you  can  see  :  there,  you  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve, you  would  see  others  equally  far :  we  have 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  there  is  a  limit." 

"  But,  Mr.  Calmire,  I  read  the  other  day  an  argu- 
ment showing  that  the  space  where  there  are  stars 
is  limited." 

"Very  likely:  there  have  been  many  such  argu- 
ments. What  was  that  one  ?" 

"Well,  I  can't  give  it  exactly,  but  its  conclusion 
was  that  unless  the  stars  were  limited,  our  nights 
would  be  bright." 

Calmire  laughed,  and  exclaimed:  "Oh  yes! 
The  argument  was  that  as  there  are  many  more 
stars  of  the  second  magnitude  than  of  the  first, 
more  of  the  third  than  of  the  second,  and  so  on,  so 
we  get  more  light  from  the  many  stars  of  second 
magnitude  than  we  do  from  the  few  of  first,  more 
from  those  of  third  than  from  those  of  second,  and 
so  on  down,  until  we  get  more  light  from  the  many 
very  remote  stars  we  see,  than  from  the  relatively 
few  very  near:  therefore,  the  farther  the  stars  ex- 
tend, the  more  light  we  get,  both  relatively  and 
absolutely,  and  if  they  extended  indefinitely,  we 
should  be  getting  indefinitely  increasing  light. 
Was  that  it?" 

"Yes,  and  it  seems  perfectly  conclusive." 

Calmire  laughed  again,  and  said:  "We  are  get- 
ting indefinitely  increasing  light — and  not  in  the 
physical  sense  alone;  but,  as  I've  often  told  you, 
there's  a  great  deal  more — of  both  kinds,  that  we 
haven't  got  yet;  and  your  friend's  argument,  my 
child,  is  nonsense,  as  every  human  argument  deal- 
ing with  infinities  must  be.  You  won't  find  a 


Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man.  185 

prettier  demonstration  than  this  just  here,  of  the 
inevitable  limits  to  our  faculties  and  to  our  per- 
ceived environment." 

"Why,  Mr.  Calmire!  The  argument  seems  per- 
fectly simple." 

"Yes,  dear,  so  simple  that  it  leaves  something 
out.  You  know,  don't  you,  that  the  light  of  even 
many  of  the  stars  we  see,  has  taken  more  time  than 
we  can  conceive,  to  reach  us?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  how  then  are  we  going  to  be  conscious  of 
the  light  of  the  stars  far  beyond  even  them?" 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that  !"  said  Nina. 

"  Neither  did  your  author.  You  see  that  we  are 
simply  where  our  minds  must  stop.  In  the  first 
place,  we  have  no  evidence  that  the  medium  which 
brings  us  light,  can  carry  it  an  indefinite  dis- 
tance, any  more  than  the  medium  which  brings  us 
sound  can*;  and  even  if  it  could,  the  light  of 
stars  infinitely  far  off  would  require  infinite  time 
to  reach  us:  so  we  could  never  see  it.  Yet  that 
expression  really  conveys  nothing  to  the  mind.  It 
has  the  negative  meaning  of  upsetting  your  author's 
equally  meaningless  hypothesis,  though — in, other 
words,  of  bringing  the  whole  question  into  paradox 
— just  where  such  questions  always  end.  But  sup- 
pose the  '  fields  of  the  stars'  limited,  we  can't  con- 
ceive space  beyond  them  limited,  and  yet  we  can't 
conceive  it  limitless,  though  some  comets  come  to 
our  Sun  in  curves  which  seem  to  prove  that  after 
they  leave  it,  they  keep  moving  away  forever." 

"What  a  grand  conception!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  So  would  I  have  my  soul  go  !" 

*  The  aspects  of  this  question  have  changed  since  Mr. 
held  forth,  but  not  so  as  to  affect  the  argument. 


1 86           Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man. 

"  Paradox  again,  my  child  !  It's  simply  no  con- 
ception at  all.  Our  minds  can't  really  conceive  it: 
we  can't  imagine  the  comets  stopping,  but  we  can't 
imagine  their  going  forever,  either.  It  would  take 
infinite  time  to  imagine  infinite  motion — which 
expression  sounds  as  if  it  meant  something;  but 
really  it  doesn't,  for  reasons  that  you  know  by  this 
time,  Miss." 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  more  than  I  can  now, 
anyhow." 

"  An  admirable  desire,  but,  like  every  other 
one,  needing  proper  regulation  !  If  you  had 
the  answer  to  every  question  that  tortures  your 
soul  now,  each  answer  would  raise  a  dozen  new 
questions — you  would  find  more  questions,  as  you 
would  find  more  stars,  and  so  on  to  infinity; 
and  knowledge  itself,  unless  curiosity  is  tem- 
pered by  reason,  would  tend  to  misery  rather 
than  to  happiness.  Those  questions,  rightly  used, 
are  new  sources  of  interest  and  activity;  but  if  we 
persist  at  looking  at  the  subject  in  your  mistaken 
way,  the  wider  share  in  the  Universe  that  we  get, 
the  more  limited  our  share  in  it  must  appear. 
Looked  at  in  the  right  way,  the  fields  we  have, 
and  the  privilege  of  widening  them,  give  us  more 
room  for  intellectual  activity  than  we  can  hope 
to  cover;  and  thought  in  those  fields  is  useful  and 
happy.  If  we  keep  within  the  bounds  that  Na- 
ture sets  for  us,  we  have  plenty  to  do,  and  what's 
even  more  important,  no  need  to  occupy  ourselves 
with  chimerical  speculations,  or  to  cut  each  other's 
throats  over  them  and  burn  each  other  at  stakes." 

"That's  true!     Perhaps  if  my  faith  about  God 


Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man.  187 

and  the  spiritual  world,  were  knowledge,  I  could 
rest  content." 

"Do  even  the  orthodox  claim  much  knowledge? 
Probably  you  know  all  of  such  subjects  now  that 
your  intellect  is  capable  of  comprehending,  except 
as  you  expand  it  by  more  study  and  more  life. 
Plainly,  if  you  could  put  your  questions  to  a  super- 
human intelligence,  the  answers  would  require  su- 
perhuman intelligence  to  comprehend;  and  the 
words  we  have  yet  made,  could  not  frame  them. 
You  know  that  all  through  the  talk  of  that  great 
man  Paul,  runs  the  question:  'How  shall  the  finite 
comprehend  the  infinite?'  But  yet  we  are  not 
wholly  restricted  to  our  ignorance.  There  is  an 
education  of  the  human  races  whatever  may  be  the 
nature  of  the  Power  which  instituted  it:  all  evolu- 
tion has  been  working  toward  intelligence  and 
toward  morality.  But  nothing  js  plainer  than  that 
we  can  only  know  the  educating  Power  through 
the  slow  and  salutary  processes  of  the  education. 
Remember  that  it  is  but  by  the  patient  use  of  those 
senses  which  you  have  been  trained  to  despise,  that 
we  have  learned  that  that  Power  is  one — that  the 
actual  energy  which  swings  the  stars,  blazes  in 
their  fires,  warms  the  air  and  the  plants,  and  vivi- 
fies the  conscious  creature,  is  the  same  force  by 
which  the  human  being  thinks  and  feels,  the  same 
that  glows  from  canvas,  throbs  through  sym- 
phonies, and  conquers  Time  and  Death  in  poems." 

His  exaltation  carried  her  with  it  for  a  moment. 
But  soon  her  face  fell  listless  again,  and  she  said: 
"  But  Time  and  Death  conquer  in  the  end." 

"  And  what  if  they  do  ?         Oh  dear  !"  he  added 


1 88  Man's  Range  Enough  for  Man. 

half  wearily,  but  cheerfully.  "  How  that  always 
comes  up  to  young  people  !  How  one  has  to  go 
over  it  with  them  again  and  again  !  Well,  perhaps 
it  can't  be  gone  over  too  often.  In  the  first  place, 
as  we  were  saying  a  few  minutes  ago,  we  don't 
know  that  thoughts,  or  even  memories,  die.  In 
old  age  the  memories  of  youth  are  said  to  be  more 
vivid  than  in  middle  life;  and  certainly  in  dreams, 
things  apparently  long  forgotten  come  up  with  all 
the  vividness  of  reality;  and  the  planchette  boards 
and  all  sorts  of  automatic  writing  and  talking  are 
constantly  showing  a  stock  of  memories  and  im- 
pulses beneath  our  consciousness." 

"  But,"  Nina  objected,  "  the  things  themselves 
die,  and  the  people,  and  everything  that's  lovely." 

"Your  faith  of  a  few  minutes  ago  was  only  in 
the  gristle,  wasn't  it  ?"  said  Calmire,  Then  he  went 
on,  apparently  regardless  of  the  subject,  to  ask: 
"  Can  you  make  out  that  picture  between  the 
windows  ?" 

"I  seem  to  see  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  in  it." 

"That's  a  thing,  I  suppose?"  queried  Calmire. 

"Certainly  !" 

"  Which  ?"  pursued  Calmire.  "  The  picture  there, 
or  the  stone  dome  in  Rome  ?" 

"Why  both,  I  suppose." 

"  Which  is  St.  Peter's — this,  or  the  one  in  Rome  ?" 

"  Why,  the  one  in  Rome,  of  course." 

"Well  now,"  said  Calmire,  "suppose  that  an 
earthquake  were  to  throw  down  the  dome  in  Rome, 
and  later,  somebody  taking  the  existing  pictures 
and  drawings  were  to  reproduce  it  exactly.  That 
would  be  essentially  just  as  much  Michelangelo's 


Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man.  189 

dome  as  the  present  one  is,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Certainly,"  Nina  admitted. 

"  Yet,"  continued  Calmire,  "  the  thing  you  now 
call  Michelangelo's  dome  would  have  yielded  to 
'  time  and  death.'  But  there  is  something  that  en- 
dures nevertheless." 

"  Not  the  pictures  and  drawings  and  all  that?" 
she  asked. 

"It's  not  inconceivable,  is  it,"  queried  Calmire 
in-return,  "that  without  even  them,  a  great  archi- 
tect could  study  the  dome  closely  enough  to  repro- 
duce it  from  memory  ?" 

"  No:  I  suppose  one  could." 

"  Well,  then,  there  is  a  something  that  started 
with  Michelangelo,  and  that  outlasts  granite. 
Now  that  something — the  thought,  is  the  essen- 
tial thing.  It  accumulated  paper  and  colors  to 
itself  and  expressed  itself  in  Michelangelo's 
plans,  or  it  accumulated  stone  to  itself  and  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  dome  by  the  Tiber;  but  what 
we  call  St.  Peter's  and  go  all  the  way  to  Rome  to 
see,  is  not  the  real  thing,  but  only  one  expression 
of  it,  like  the  other  ten  thousand  expressions — 
pictures,  models, — all  are  mere  temporary  acci- 
dents of  it :  the  thing  itself,  the  real  St.  Peter's, 
endures  independently  of  them  ;  it  arose  in  the 
consciousness  of  Michelangelo  and  the  other  archi- 
tects, it  exists  more  or  less  completely  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  millions  to-day,  a  dream  can  bring  it 
up  vividly  in  any  one  of  them,  and,  as  I  have  tried 
to  make  plain  to  you  before,  we  have  no  conclusive 
evidence  that  it  ever  dies." 

"  Yes  !  How  wonderful  !"  ejaculated  Nina.    Then 


190  Man's  Range  Enough  for  Man. 

after  pondering  a  minute,  she  said  sadly:  "But 
that  flower  there,  is  not  an  expression  of  any  man's 
enduring  thought,  and  human  beings  are  not, 
either." 

"Some  people,"  Calmire  answered,  "are  fond  oi 
considering  them  expressions  of  God's  thoughts; 
and  some  like  to  think  of  the  human  soul  seizing 
carbon  and  oxygen  and  nitrogen  and  iron  and  lime 
and  making  a  body  to  express  itself  withal,  just  as 
Michelangelo's  soul  seized  charcoal  and  colors 
and  stone  to  partially  express  itself  in  his  plans 
and  pictures  and  statues  and  buildings.  Of  course 
so  far  as  we  know,  this  is  all  a  mere  metaphor  re- 
garding man  and  the  flower,  but  there  may  be  the 
deepest  truth  behind  it.  Certainly  as  long  as  the 
flower  and  the  man  can  be  reproduced,  to  a  degree, 
on  canvas  or  in  memory — including  the  vivid  mem- 
ory of  dreams,  it's  no  more  true  of  them  than  of 
the  dome,  that  time  and  death  conquer  them; 
though  to  be  fair,  it  is  in  one  sense  more  nearly 
true  of  them  than  of  the  simpler  things  of  man's 
voluntary  production:  for  man's  can  all  be  ex- 
pressed over  and  over  again  in  the  most  perfect 
way,  while  Nature's  cannot  be  reproduced  by 
human  art  in  any  but  most  inadequate  represen- 
tation. Yet  involuntarily,  outside  of  art,  in  dreams, 
they  are  reproduced  with  strange  completeness: 
immortality  in  the  minds  of  those  who  love  us,  or 
hate  us,  or  even  are  indifferent  to  us,  means  more 
than  we  ordinarily  ascribe  to  mere  waking  mem- 
ory. 'Time  and  Death'  may  'conquer  in  the 
end  ':  our  minds  simply  can't  conceive  of  the  eternal 
existence  of  anything;  but  they  don't  conquer  as 


Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man.  19  * 

promptly  as  at  first  glance  they  seem  to  !  Do 
they?" 

"No,"  admitted  Nina.  "They  certainly  do  not. 
But  this  is  all  so  new  and  strange!  Give  me  some 
more  sides  of  it,  please." 

"Well,"  said  Calmire,  with  a  little  laugh,  "you 
see,  don't  you,  that  when  you  say  that  Time  and 
Death  conquer,  you  are  simply  falling  once  more 
into  the  paradoxes  that  fringe  our  limited  reason  ? 
We  know  just  as  well  that  they  do  not  conquer,  as 
that  they  do.  That  flower  blooming  near  the  win- 
dow, is  beautiful  in  spite  of  all  that  Time  and  Death 
can  do;  so  is  Hamlet;  so  is  the  Pastoral  Symphony. 
Here  our  paradox  relates  to  time,  just  as,  when 
we  were  traveling  off  among  the  stars  a  moment 
ago,  it  related  to  space.  You  can't  imagine  the 
flower  and  the  poetry  and  the  music  lasting  forever, 
any  more  than  you  can  imagine  the  stars  and  space 
extending  without  limit.  Neither  can  you  imagine 
the  fact  that  the  flower  is  beautiful,  annihilated, 
any  more  than  you  can  imagine  space  annihilated. 
Are  you  going  to  despise  the  flower  because  it 
does  not  last  forever?  Suppose  that  even  your 
flower  of  a  soul  does  not  last  forever,  any  more 
than  your  flower  of  a  life  does,  are  they  not  to 
be  loved  ?  We  are  not  apt  to  think  that  being 
each  of  us  limited  in  space,  takes  the  significance 
out  of  life;  why  then  should  being  limited  in  time  ? 
I  confess  that  when  I  hear  people  say  that  life  is 
worthless  unless  it  is  immortal,  I  am  reminded  of 
a  creature  of  boundless  greed,  whose  brief  name 
is  often  a  term  of  reproach,  and  seldom  mentioned 
to  ears  polite." 


ig2  Maris  Range  Enough  for  Man. 

Both  were  silent  a  little.  Then  he  continued: 
"  Now  what  is  the  moral  of  all  this  ?  It  is  not  a  specu- 
lative one,  for  it  is  proved  every  day  in  the  lives  that 
are  happiest  and  most  useful;  it  is  the  one  that  all 
rational  thought  leads  to  from  every  side:  our  talks 
always  bring  up  at  it;  it  is  simply  to  use  the  facul- 
ties we  have  and  the  opportunities  we  have.  No 
man  ever  found  so  little  to  do  here  that  he  really 
needed  a  bigger  universe.  Alexander's  cheap  yearn- 
ing for  more  worlds  to  conquer,  would  have  been 
superfluous  if  he'd  had  heart  and  brain  enough  to 
try  a  single  world  to  improve.  No  man  ever  found 
in  himself  so  much  capacity  to  work  or  to  enjoy,  that 
average  opportunities,  discretion,  and  health,  would 
not  exercise  it  to  the  full,  without  giving  him  time 
to  sigh  for  more  opportunities.  Of  course  there 
are  many  whose  chances  are  below  average  :  the 
world  is  not  yet  perfectly  evolved,  and  may  never 
be.  But  it's  evolved  far  enough  to  give  us  our 
hands  full  without  our  needing  any  more." 

"Yes,  but  knowledge  and  work  are  not  all,"  she 
sighed,  thinking  farther  away  than  the  subject  of 
their  talk. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  but  still  following  his  own 
thought,  little  divining  hers.  "There  must  be  a 
faith  beyond  knowledge,  as  we  felt  it  the  other 
morning.  But  with  you,  the  faith  can't  any  longer 
be  contrary  to  knowledge.  Yet  remember  what  I 
have  said  before  about  the  difficulty  of  changing 
old  beliefs  for  new.  You  can't  expect  your  new 
conceptions  of  the  Infinite  to  fill  your  needs  all 
at  once:  for  that  matter,  what  human  needs  ever 
are  completely  filled  ?  All  I  claim  is  that  they're 


Mans  Range  Enough  for  Man.  193 

generally  filled  far  enough  to  get  along  on,  if  we 
take  things  rightly." 

"  But,"  Nina  objected,  "  so  many  who  have  noth- 
ing here  are  sustained  by  hope  of  the  hereafter." 

"  Well,  certainly  I  don't  object  to  their  being,  if 
they  can,  and  can't  find  anything  to  fill  their 
minds  with  more  substantial  than  that  hope. 
But  there  are  people  whose  minds  seek  demon- 
strable things.  You're  one  :  but  you've  got  to 
get  a  new  strength  to  pursue  and  hold  the  new 
conceptions.  Even  those  who  are  satisfied  with  the 
old  beliefs,  have  to  do  that  before  becoming  really 
strong  in  them:  you  know  the  churches  talk  about 
getting  a  new  heart,  being  born  again,  and  the  like. 
You  have  got  to  get  a  new  heart,  with  which  to  rely 
on  yourself  and  on  the  universe  as  you  find  it:  not 
as,  in  your  limited  judgment,  you  would  like  it. 
Some  maturer  judgments  prefer  it  as  it  is,  rather 
than  as  you  would  have  it.  You  remember  Les- 
sing's  saying?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I  never  knew  it.     What  was  it  ?" 

"What  a  delight  to  have  a  new  generation  to  tell 
the  old  stories  to!"  Calmire  exclaimed,  laughing. 

"Has  this  one  anything  to  do  with  whiskey?" 
asked  Nina,  remembering  one  that  did,  and  sud- 
denly losing  her  bright  expression. 

"  Not  exactly.  It's  a  beautiful  allegory,  and 
beautifully  told.  '  If  God  held  truth  in  his  right 
hand  and  search-for-truth  in  his  left,  and  were  to 
say  to  me:  "Choose!"  I  would  bow  reverently  to 
the  left  hand  and  say:  "  Father,  give!  Pure  truth 
is  for  thee  alone!"  '  " 


CHAPTER   LV. 

MAKING    THE    BEST    OF    A    BAD    CASE. 

WHILE  Nina  and  Muriel  had  been  learning  easy 
lessons  in  philosophy  from  Calmire,  and  Muriel, 
at  least,  hard  lessons  in  morality  from  experience, 
poor  Minerva,  who,  of  course,  was  not  capable  of 
learning  a  very  great  deal  of  either,  still  was  having 
her  full  share  of  that  mysterious  education  which 
misery  generally  brings  with  it. 

Whether,  under  all  circumstances,  "  the  prayer 
of  the  righteous  availeth  much,"  will  probably  long 
be  an  open  question;  and  there  may  be  a  difference 
of  opinion  as  to  which  side  of  the  question  is  sup- 
ported by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Granzine  had  given 
avail  to  Clint  Russell's  pious  ejaculation  when  we 
last  saw  him  with  Calmire,  by  starting  off  in  the 
direction  it  indicated  with  "Doctor"  Leitoff. 

It  took  a  combination  of  many  things  to  lead  to 
a  step  so  inconsistent  with  her  years  and  her  de- 
votion to  her  children.  But  her  maternal  feeling 
has  already  been  likened  to  that  of  the  lower 
creatures,  and  among  the  points  of  resemblance, 
was  its  relatively  evanescent  character.  A  fort- 
night earlier,  "Doctor"  Leitoff,  the  same  surgeon 
that  Clint  Russell  had  known  in  the  army,  had  put 
out  of  joint  the  nose  of  the  leading  quack  of  the 
village,  by  appearing  with  a  fine  pair  of  horses, 

194 


Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case.  195 

constant  black  broadcloth,  excessive  blue-white 
linen  with  a  most  impressive  diamond  in  the  midst 
thereof,  and  a  great  and  suspiciously-black  beard. 
All  this  glory  had  been  preceded  by  flaring  ad- 
vertisements of  his  benevolent  intention  to  cure  all 
the  ills  of  humanity,  by  various  elements  of  a 
pharmacopoeia  whose  uses  were  known  only  to 
himself,  and  which,  in  his  one  little  life,  he  had 
raised  into  an  efficacy  superior  to  that  of  every- 
thing else  provided  by  all  the  experience  of  all  the 
ages.  His  remedies  did  not  include  "faith,"  for 
that  function  of  that  much-misused  power  had 
not  then  been  revived  from  the  desuetude  into 
which  it  had  fallen  since  the  mighty  claims  made 
for  it  nearly  twenty  centuries  earlier. 

Mrs.  Granzine  was  a  strong  woman — where  there 
was  anything  to  seek  or  anything  to  do.  But  where 
there  was  only  something  to  endure — some  loss  to 
bear — she  was  of  the  weakest.  And  of  all  losses  that 
she  might  be  called  upon  to  endure — the  loss  of 
love,  or  of  health,  or  of  fortune  (as  she  knew  it), 
or  of  the  deference  of  her  neighbors,  the  last  loss 
was  to  such  a  nature  as  hers,  the  greatest.  Mi- 
nerva's misfortunes  constantly  demanded  from  her 
mother  a  sympathy  which  it  was  not  in  the  mother's 
nature  to  give,  nor  yet  to  suffer  from  her  incapa- 
city to  give.  But  one  thing  the  woman  did  suf- 
fer from,  and  that  was  an  imagination.  Despite 
Calmire's  word  that  nothing  should  be  spared 
to  save  untoward  exposure,  even  to  settling  the 
family  comfortably  out  of  reach,  she  would  picture 
herself  the  object,  no  longer  of  the  deferential  ad- 
miration of  her  ignorant  circle,  but  of  its  gossip: 


196  Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case. 

and  that,  she  felt,  would  be  doubly  eager  because 
of  her  "  superiority."  With  the  inconsistency  of  all 
dishonest  natures,  she  found  immeasurably  ter- 
rible, the  idea  of  the  very  exposure  which  she  had 
herself  threatened. 

This  picture  pushed  her,  and  Dr.  Leitoff  attracted 
her.  The  fires  she  had  transmitted  to  Minerva 
were  still  far  from  burned  out  in  her  own  veins. 
She  still  had  power  to  inspire  anew  Leitoff's  tran- 
scendental German  dreaminess,  and  it  produced  on 
her  the  effect  that  a  poetical  nature,  however  cheap, 
can  exercise  on  the  sort  of  woman  that  she  bur- 
lesqued. Small  as  her  soul  and  his  were,  the 
ratio  between  them  was  the  same  that  it  would 
have  been  if  he  had  been  really  a  poet,  and  she 
really  a  woman.  She  had  felt  his  magnetic 
charm  in  youth,  and  the  long  association  with 
poor  prosy  Granzine  into  which  prudence  had  led 
her,  made  her  in  her  maturer  years  no  less  sen- 
sitive to  Leitoff's  fancies  or  to  his  pinchbeck  imi- 
tations of  what  seemed  to  her  refinement.  She 
never  had  much  moral  nature,  and  as  is  so  fre- 
quently the  case,  it  was  at  the  expense  of  it,  that 
she  had  cultivated  her  aesthetic  nature.  Here,  too, 
within  her  reach,  were  what  appeared  to  her,  ele- 
gance and  wealth:  and  she  had  never  had  an  op- 
portunity to  test  the  emptiness  of  either.  The  result 
of  it  all  was  that  she  shuffled  off  the  whole  miser- 
able responsibilities  and  dreads  of  home,  leaped 
into  the  paradise  of  paint  and  tinsel  constructed 
for  her  by  Leitoff's  imagination — and  one  evening 
started  off  with  him  behind  his  white  horses,  never, 
as  she  supposed,  to  return,  Minerva  was  left  alone 


Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case.  1 97 

with  old  Granzine,  who  might  have  been  really 
her  father,  for  so  had  some  ancestral  weak  nature 
diluted  in  Minerva  most  of  the  forces  but  the 
dangerous  ones,  transmitted  by  her  mother. 

Now  that  Mrs.  Granzine  had  gone  where  Clint 
wanted  her  to,  though  by  no  road  of  his  selection, 
she  was  at  least  out  of  his  way;  and  the  gentle  giant 
experienced  toward  Minerva  a  violent  accession  of 
that  chivalrous  tenderness  and  pity  for  everything 
weak  and  wronged,  which  made  him  as  great  a 
comfort  to  them,  as  he  was  a  terror  to  oppressors. 

Although  he  had  no  suspicion  of  how  much 
Minerva  needed  her  mother,  he  could  not  have 
been  more  profane  (Or  at  least  any  other  man 
could  not)  over  Mrs.  Granzine's  desertion,  if  he 
had  known  all  that  she  had  deserted.  As  soon 
as  he  learned  of  that  wretched  woman's  flight, 
he  came  to  Minerva  to  swear,  in  his  way  of  course, 
that  he  was  going  to  do  everything  for  her  that 
he  could,  beginning  by  thrashing  the  whole  town 
if  it  should  by  word  or  look  make  heavier  the  bur- 
den her  mother's  conduct  had  thrown  upon  her. 

He  was  the  first  to  bring  her  any  consolation,  and 
his  rough  kindness  was  peculiarly  congenial  to  her. 
All  that  she  was  suffering  made  it  easy  for  a  stronger 
feeling  than  she  had  ever  known  before — a  feeling 
of  more  character,  to  grow  up  toward  Clint.  Hers 
was  not  the  nature  to  scotch  such  a  feeling  at  the 
beginning  for  the  reasons  that  would  have  made 
it  horrible  to  some  women  in  her  situation,  or  to 
lead  her  to  prevent  Clint  coming  again  with  more 
sympathy,  and  again  and  again  with  more  and 
more. 


1 98  Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case. 

In  their  earlier  acquaintance,  she  had  loved  Clint, 
in  his  turn  of  course,  as  she  had  loved  every  man 
she  knew  who  was  worth  it.  One  of  the  strange 
things  about  Minerva,  as  already  intimated,  was 
that,  whatever  her  own  shortcomings,  her  require- 
ments in  men — and  her  attainments,  were  generally 
high.  If  Clint  had  been  persistent,  if  nobody  else 
had  too  soon  tempted  her  with  variety,  and  if 
her  mother  had  not  corrupted  her  toward  Muriel, 
she  would  have  married  Clint  long  before.  That 
she  could  not  do  so  now,  was  a  fact  painfully  borne 
in  upon  her  by  the  feeling  that  his  assiduous  kind- 
ness inspired. 

Whether  there  was  in  Clint's  own  mind,  any  mo- 
tive' for  that  kindness,  beyond  his  natural  gentle- 
ness and  chivalry,  he  had  not  time  (for  in  such  a 
matter  he  required  more  time  than  most  men)  to 
ask  himself,  before  Minerva  disappeared  from  the 
scene,  and  with  her  whatever  germs  there  may  have 
been  in  both  of  them  for  the  development  of  an 
aborted  idyl  in  misery  and  despair. 

Minerva's  disappearance  came  about  naturally 
through  Calmire.  When  she  was  deserted  by  her 
mother,  he  felt  the  necessity  of  some  other  woman 
in  the  case,  and  after  carefully  considering  the 
situation,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  argu- 
ments in  favor  of  taking  his  sister-in-law  Amelia 
into  his  confidence,  were  greater  than  the  very  ob- 
vious ones  against  it.  That  gentle  lady's  wisdom 
and  loving  care  for  all  that  concerned,  Muriel, 
would,  Calmire  knew,  not  only  be  of  value  now, 
but  of  inestimable  worth  in  the  probable  future. 
She,  as  recognized  helper  of  every  woman  within 


Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case.  199 

miles  who  needed  help,  could  at  once  do  for  Mi- 
nerva, without  exciting  comment,  what  nobody 
else  could;  and  her  unerring  judgment,  Calmire 
felt,  would  see  the  best  courses  for  the  future. 

She  was  infinitely  distressed,  as  Calmire  knew 
she  would  be;  but  wasted  no  time  in  vainly  wring- 
ing her  hands  or  moralizing.  She  concluded  to 
keep  Minerva,  for  the  present  at  least,  within  reach 
of  herself.  In  driving,  she  had  seen  her  with  Hul- 
dah  Cronin,  touching  whom  she,  and  Mary  Courte- 
nay  of  course,  knew  more  than  anybody  else  in  Cal- 
mire. The  image  of  the  pair  together,  came  up  in 
Amelia's  imagination  as  it  roamed  over  the  neigh- 
boring country  seeking  an  asylum  for  Minerva. 
Huldah's  house  was  singularly  secluded.  Many  old 
residents  did  not  know  its  existence.  Winter  was  at 
hand,  when  it  would  be  doubly  secluded.  A  little 
discretion  would  enable  Minerva  to  live  there  un- 
observed, at  least  until  Spring.  Should  any  com- 
plication arise,  she  could  easily  go  away,  and 
meanwhile  the  question  of  where  to,  could  be  con- 
sidered. 

After  much  deliberation,  some  talks  with  Mi- 
nerva, and  a  final  talk  with  Calmire,  and  the  over- 
coming of  a  great  repugnance,  Amelia  dispatched 
the  following  note  to  Huldah  Cronin: 


"  Monday. 

"  You  have  been  kind  to  Minerva  Granzine.  You 
know  that  her  mother  is  gone.  Your  kindness  has, 
I  trust,  been  a  happiness  to  yourself.  I  hope  you 
will  feel  able  to  increase  it  by  taking  her  to  your 
house.  If  you  do,  you  can  depend  upon  me  to 


2OO  Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case. 

supply  money  for  everything  that  she  needs.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  do  this,  and  to  supply  any  counsel 
that  I  can  which  you  may  see  fit  to  send  for. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  you  in  earlier  and  more 
hopeful  days,  and  I  know  that  in  whatever  you  do, 
you  deliberately  wrong  no  one  but  yourself.  If 
my  good  wishes  for  you  and  for  poor  Minerva 
could  spare  you  both  suffering,  you  would  be 
spared  much;  if  they  could  give  you  happiness, 
much  would  be  added  to  you. 

"AMELIA  CALMIRE. 
"  To  Huldah  Cronin." 

When  Huldah  read  this  note,  she  shed  the  first 
tears  that  she  had  shed  in  a  year.  But  she  did 
nothing  in  the  matter  for  two  days,  but  write  a 
letter  (not  to  Mrs.  John)  and  receive  an  answer. 
In  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  when  she  was 
half  dressed,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Mrs.  John, 
and  after  a  note  or  two  more,  regarding  details, 
had  been  interchanged,  she  wrote  as  follows  to 
Minerva: 

"  Thursday. 

"  DEAR  MINERVA:  You  are  to  come  and  live  with 
me.  Tell  your  father  what  you  please,  and  manage 
him.  Mrs.  John  will  help  you.  Probably  he  had 
better  give  up  your  house  and  go  to  live  with  his 
brother  in  Massachusetts.  He  is  not  to  come  to  see 
you  while  you  are  with  me.  You  can  meet  him 
where  you  please.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  old  place 
with  my  horse  this  day  week  at  four.  I  am  to 
see  no  one  but  yourself.  Have  your  trunk  and 
anything  else  you  wish  to  bring,  in  your  hall,  with 


Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case.  201 

your  name  on  a  tag  tied  to  each   article.     I  wiii 
send  a  man  who  will  get  them  at  six. 

"  Yours,  HULDAH." 

The  change  was  effected  as  desired,  but  the 
weather  was  bad,  and  Minerva,  weak  and  excited, 
caught  a  cold  which  sent  her  to  bed  with  a  raging 
fever  and  delirium.  The  doctor  for  whom,  at  Mi- 
nerva's request,  Huldah  sent — a  practitioner  of 
some  alleged  "  pathy"  or  other  which  had  appealed 
to  Mrs.  Granzine's  enlightened  mind,  told  Dinah, 
Huldah's  black  factotum,  that  he  was  sorry  that 
his  engagements  would  prevent  his  attending  a 
case  so  far  from  his  office.  He  lied.  Huldah  wrote 
to  Mrs.  John,  asking  what  she  should  do,  but  told 
Dinah  to  employ  a  boy  to  carry  the  note.  Mrs. 
John  went  at  once  to  Dr.  Rossman,  the  leading 
physician  in  Calmire — one  of  the  men  not  infre- 
quent in  country  practice,  who  possess  every  ele- 
ment of  greatness  except  ambition  and  experience 
of  misery  of  their  own;  and  when  he  bowed  Mrs. 
John  out,  though  she  had  told  him  nothing  of  her 
personal  reasons  for  befriending  the  patient,  their 
hands  grasped  close  as  they 'had  often  done,  and 
tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  both;  or,  to  be  exact, 
there  was  one  tear  in  the  Doctor's  right  eye,  which 
he  had  weakened  over  his  microscope. 

This  good  man  kept  Mrs.  John  informed  regard- 
ing his  patient,  and  was  the  medium  to  Minerva  of 
many  physical  and  moral  comforts.  Under  his 
kindly  ministrations,  and  some  elements  of  a  new 
moral  atmosphere  which  began  to  surround  her, 
Minerva  soon  was  gaining  strength  in  many  ways. 


202  Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case. 

Calmire  showed  his  sympathy  for  her  in  a 
thousand  things  that  affected  her  deeply.  While 
his  good  taste,  not  to  speak  of  his  wisdom,  would 
not  lavish  luxuries  upon  her,  he  managed,  without 
attracting  outside  notice,  to  surround  her  with 
an  atmosphere  of  care  and  kindly  little  attentions 
that  might  have  surprised  any  forlorn  banished  prin- 
cess in  the  land  of  the  courtliest  of  sovereign  hosts. 

When  in  America,  he  always  kept  Fleuvemont  in 
condition  to  receive  him  during  the  whole  year, 
and  now  sometimes  when  he  passed  the  night 
there,  on  his  way  home  from  the  village  in  the 
dark  evenings  until  Spring,  he  would  ride  over 
on  Malzour  to  see  Minerva.  With  infinite  deli- 
cacy and  tact,  he  had  led  her  by  degrees  to  open 
her  poor  heart  to  him  almost  as  she  would  to 
a  woman  or,  say,  to  a  sympathetic  old  family 
doctor.  At  the  same  time,  without  her  half  recog- 
nizing his  agency,  he  had  led  her  to  realize 
that  she  was  suffering  the  consequences  of  con- 
duct that  she  herself  was  as  responsible  for  as 
anybody,  and  so  he  had  given  her  that  most 
comfortable  support  in  trouble:  "It's  my  own 
fault."  Yet  he  never  shaded  off  his  conviction 
of  Muriel's  responsibility,  but  rather  proved  his 
realization  of  it,  by  the  responsibilities  for  Miner- 
va's well-being  that  he  took  upon  himself. 

Mrs.  John,  too,  sometimes  managed  to  get  to  Mi- 
nerva, and  in  some  ways  did  more  for  her  than 
Calmire.  Between  them,  the  two  good  people 
made  her  life  much  more  than  tolerable,  and  with- 
out encouraging  any  illusions,  suggested  enough 
cheerful  possibilities  in  the  future  to  prevent  its 


Making  the  Best  of  a  Bad  Case.          203 

appearing  what,  without  them  and  the  faith  that 
Muriel  would  eventually  carry  on  their  work,  it 
would  have  been, — black  and  desperate. 

Under  these  influences,  and  especially  under  her 
personal  causes  for  reflection,  Minerva  was  becom- 
ing something  like  a  serious,  candid,  and  strong 
woman.  Huldah,  with  whom  she  lived,  was  natu- 
rally al!  that,  though  her  independence  of  judgment 
had  led  her  to  justify  herself  in  things  which  prob- 
ably, under  a  wider  education,  she  would  have  disap- 
proved. She  was  wiser  than  she  once  was,  however, 
and  her  influence  on  Minerva  was  not  only  sustain- 
ing and  cheering  but,  on  the  whole,  expanding. 

Moreover,  Minerva's  case  had  become  one  more  to 
prove  John  Calmire's  frequent  assertion  that  there 
never  was  within  five  miles  of  the  town,  an  in- 
stance of  anything  like  blighted  affections,  that 
Mary  Courtenay  did  not  manage  to  find  out  and 
do  something  to  help.  She  came  near  doing  more 
harm  than  good  in  this  one,  but  Minerva  herself 
brought  her  to  her  bearings,  and  made  her  a  valu- 
able and  helpful  friend. 

In  short,  Minerva's  lines,  despite  of  all,  had  fallen 
in  such  places  that  she  said  more  than  once,  that 
she  had  not  known,  in  her  happier  days,  how  much 
goodness  and  justice  there  was  in  the  world. 

So  matters  went  on  for  some  months. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

SOME  TRAVEL  AND  SOME  LETTERS. 

MEANWHILE,  Muriel  had  gone  abroad.  He  and 
his  companion  proved  such  poor  sailors  that  on 
the  voyage  their  relation  was  one  of  mutual 
though  ineffective  sympathy.  But  they  had  not 
been  on  shore  long  before  they  found  each  other 
irksome.  Muriel  was  too  moody  to  be  good  com- 
pany, and  so  unwilling  to  have  his  cogitations 
broken  in  upon,  that  he  could  not  find  his  friend 
good  company  either.  So,  without  any  unpleasant 
explanations,  they  took  a  chance  of  separating 
which  was  offered  in  Paris  by  the  happening  along 
of  a  party  that  was  going  to  Marseilles  instead  of 
to  Pau,  where  Muriel's  companion  had  to  meet 
friends.  The  region  between  Pau  and  Marseilles 
being  reported  comparatively  uninteresting,  Mu- 
riel was  glad  enough  to  make  that  a  reason  for 
joining  the  party  for  the  latter  place,  but  with  the 
unexpressed  intention  of  leaving  them  before  get- 
ting there. 

When  they  neared  Avignon,  Muriel  announced 
his  desire  of  giving  a  few  days  to  the  old  papal 
capital  and  the  old  Roman  towns  between  it  and 
the  Mediterranean.  His  companions  were  not 
burdened  with  historical  curiosity,  but  were  more 
directly  bent  upon  the  delights  of  Monte  Carlo 

204 


Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters.  205 

and  Mentone;  and  so  Muriel  found  himself  in  the 
old  city,  for  the  first  time  alone  in  a  strange  land. 
He  was  not  conscious  of  this  fact  during  the  bustle 
of  getting  fixed  in  his  quarters  at  the  quaint  old 
hotel,  and  hardly  conscious  of  it  (though  he  did 
wish  for  somebody  to  enjoy  with  him)  as  he  was 
looking  at  the  time-worn  bridge  broken  down 
perhaps  by  its  great  weight  of  tradition,  the  pretty 
little  park,  the  inadequate  little  cathedral,  and  the 
old  palace  which  seems  a  combination  of  fortress, 
church,  and  buttressed  railway  embankment.  But 
when  he  sat  down  to  dinner  without  anybody  to 
talk  all  these  things  over  with,  for  he  was  still 
timid  in  his  French,  he  felt  very  solitary  indeed — 
alone  in  a  crowd  and,  what  was  infinitely  worse, 
alone  with  a  sorrow. 

We  seldom  realize  to  what  an  extent  our  con- 
victions are  matters  of  environment — how  much 
support  they  get  from  the  soil  in  which  they  have 
grown,  especially  from  that  portion  of  their  nutri- 
ment which  comes  from  the  corresponding  opinions 
of  friends.  Mr.  Muriel  did  not  endure  separation 
from  all  this — his  loneliness  and  the  inevitable  in- 
trospection which,  despite  the  novelties  of  foreign 
travel,  it  involved,  without  finding  himself  on  the 
brink  of  the  old  agonizing  skepticism  which  had 
vented  itself  in  the  letters  to  Calmire  already  given. 
This  time,  though,  it  did  not  take  him  long  to 
recognize  the  noisome  pool  and  to  avoid  it  by  the 
paths  he  had  already  learned.  And  as  every  nature 
sore  and  inflamed  as  his  was,  is  open  to  every  dis- 
ease, of  course  the  very  opposite  temptation  as- 
sailed him  too,  through  the  appeal  made  to  his 


206  Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters. 

imagination  by  the  Church.  At  Avignon,  with  the 
aid  of  a  book  or  two,  he  peopled  the  old  scenes 
with  their  former  dramas  and  pageantry,  and  while 
he  was  conscious  of  the  weak  and  mean  things  that 
had  been  done  there,  the  immensity  of  the  power 
that  did  them,  even  when  half  bullied  and  half  pro- 
tected by  other  powers,  impressed  him  as  nothing 
human  had  impressed  him  before.  He  carried  some 
of  this  state  of  mind  to  Rome,  and  posted  off  first 
thing,  not  to  the  relatively  modern  gauds  of  St. 
Peter's,  but  to  the  storied  buildings  by  the  Lateran, 
the  famous  triclinium,  and  the  font  where  poor 
Rienzi  took  his  mystic  bath.  For  the  first  few 
days,  Muriel  was  so  absorbed  in  his  historic  enthu- 
siasms that  he  felt  the  impulse,  which  of  course 
he  sardonically  dismissed,  to  identify  himself  with 
the  tremendous  institution  which  is  far  the  most 
picturesque  and  venerable  of  all  that  survive. 
Even  to  his  keen  vision,  dimmed  by  repentant 
tears,  warped  by  self-distrust,  fagged  by  the  need 
of  rest,  and  enveloped  in  the  haze  of  a  fervid 
young  imagination,  the  church's  art  and  splendor 
could  easily  veil,  for  a  time,  its  tawdriness  and  ab- 
surdity. But  after  the  first  few  days  of  his  enthu- 
siasms, as  he  loafed  about  more  leisurely  on  foot, 
he  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  in  no  city  where 
he  had  ever  been,  even  in  Italy,  was  the  expression 
of  the  people's  faces  so  low,  and  that  he  was  among 
a  race  of  beggars.  While  one  priest  in  ten,  perhaps, 
had  a  refined  face,  the  rest  were  brutish  to  a  degree 
that  disgusted  him;  and  when  one  of  the  latter  as- 
sailed him  at  his  hotel,  clinking  a  money-box,  he 
realized  whence  had  come  the  example  which  had 


Some   Travel  and  Some  Letters.          207 

developed  the  race  of  beggars.  Then  the  humbug 
pervading  it  all  became  obvious,  and  Muriel's  dis- 
illusion began.  Nevertheless,  with  all  the  moral 
enthusiasm  of  a  penitent,  and  the  susceptibility  of 
a  sufferer,  his  sympathies  expanded  to  the  tender 
imagery  of  the  old  religion  and  filled  him  with  the 
emotional  exaltation  that  has  responded  to  the 
same  sentiments  and  many  of  the  same  symbols, 
through  all  human  history. 

He  had  bravely  stuck  to  his  resolution  to  leave 
Nina  in  peace,  but  these  feelings  and  his  terrible 
loneliness  overpowered  him,  as  of  course  some- 
thing was  sure  to,  and  he  wrote  to  her.  Perhaps 
no  other  youngster  would  have  done  it,  at  least 
in  his  way:  but  our  young  man,  as  may  have  been 
already  suspected,  was  very  much  of  a  law  unto 
himself,  and  not  always  a  very  admirable  law,  at 
that;  and  he  was  half  mad. 

Muriel  Calmire  to  Nina  Wahring. 

"  ROME,  December  10,  18 — . 

"  May  I  not  speak  to  you — not  as  Muriel  to  Nina, 
not  even  as  man  to  woman,  not  even  as  human 
being  to  human  being,  but  as  penitent  sinners 
speak  to  God — to  the  Holy  Mother  of  God  ?  So 
I  see  the  poor  and  lowly  doing  here  on  every  side: 
they  may  be  foolish,  but  I  am  humble  now,  and 
their  thought  of  their  Madonna  in  the  far-off 
Heaven  is  no  holier  than  my  thought  of  you. 

"The  thought  may  drive  me  mad,  but  if  it  is  the 
only  joy  left  me,  let  me  at  least  be  mad.  In  mad- 
ness, I  suppose,  there  is  some  oblivion. 

"  I  am  told  that  men  are  better  and  stronger  for 


2o8          Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters. 

their  duty,  if  they  think  they  work  to  honor  some 
perfect  being,  remote,  inaccessible,  divine — such  as 
now  I  picture  you.  If  this  is  true  of  other  men, 
why  not  of  me  ?  At  last  I  find  that  I  am  not  as 
different  from  other  men  as  I  had  so  arrogantly 
supposed.  My  ancestors  are  in  me,  and  when  I 
am  weak  with  loneliness  and  despair,  I  turn,  after 
all,  toward  what  they  turned  to.  I  cannot  fancy 
the  laws  of  this  vast  Kosmos,  which  deal  out  our 
lives  with  less  sympathy,  less  mercy,  than  even  the 
laws  of  man — which  sweep  on  with  us  and  sweep 
on  by  us  in  a  flood  irresistible  and  inexorable — I 
cannot  regard  them  as  controlled  by  anything 
enough  like  our  human  selves  to  care  for  any  cry 
sent  forth  from  a  human  breast.  And  yet  the  old 
cry  for  sympathy — the  old,  old  yearning  to  love 
and  worship,  spring  out  from  my  breast  just  the 
same.  If  you  cannot  be  nearer,  be  far  off  like 
God,  like  the  Madonna  Mary,  but  hear  me!  Pity 
me,  as  these  people  say  she  pities  even  those  viler 
than  I,  and  redeem  me,  though  I  see  you  not,  as 
they  say  she  redeems  them;  and  if  I  must  not  love 
you,  let  me  worship,  worship,  worship  you. 

"  In  the  old  days,  a  man  who  sinned  and  ruined 
his  life,  as  I  have  done,  forsook  his  duties  and 
turned  monk,  that  he  might  do  nothing  but  so 
worship.  The  old  days  still  last  here,  and  prob- 
ably I  see  such  men  under  their  cowls  almost  every 
hour.  But  I  am  at  least  a  child  of  our  times.  I 
can  worship  you  always,  and  yet  live  in  the  world 
and  face  my  duty  as  best  I  can  see  it.  But  Oh  ! 
Is  there  not  in  all  this  vast  complexity  of  life, 
some  train  of  duty  that  leads  to  you  ?  I  am  the 


Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters.         209 

only  man — the  only  man  near  your  years,  at  least, 
that  I  ever  knew,  who  can  fathom  your  soul  and 
fill  it.  You  are  the  only  woman  who  can  fill  mine. 
Are  our  souls  worthless,  that  they  should  be  de- 
prived of  each  other?  Is  not  their  union  our  one 
final  duty — above  all  other  duties,  comprehending 
all  others  ?  Should  we  not  do  that  duty  in  any 
event,  and  then  let  the  scope  of  other  duties  be 
determined  by  it? 

"  Of  course  I  spin  all  sorts  of  webs  of  logic,  and 
I  build  arguments  that  seem  unbreakable  and 
prove  that  you  and  I  ought  to  be  happy  together, 
that  we  could  be,  and  that  haunting  alien  duty 
of  mine  still  be  done.  But  I  mistrust  all  dem- 
onstration that  points  to  happiness;  and  even  if 
I  did  not,  I  would  not  wish,  unless  you  bid  me  I 
would  not  dare,  to  show  all  my  reasonings  to  you. 

"  See  my  faith  in  you,  Madonna  !  I  trust  one 
throb  of  instinct  in  that  pure  soul  of  yours  farther 
than  I  trust  all  my  logic. 

"  Oh  I  love  to  humble  myself  before  you  !  Upon 
the  world,  I  have  looked  down,  or  thought  myself 
looking  down;  to  Uncle  Grand,  I  have  looked 
across,  as  from  one  peak  to  another  (/  fancying 
wyself  as  on  a  peak  !  I  don't  believe  that  Uncle 
Grand  fancies  Siimselt  on  one),  but  when  I  regard 
the  thought  of  you,  it  is  joy,  or  nearer  joy  than 
anything  else  I  now  know,  to  look  up. 

"What  shall  I  do  ?  Guide  me,  Pure  One  !  You 
told  me  when  I  saw  you  in  my  uncle's  house 
— my  home,  that  it  was  not  my  place.  What 
would  you  call  my  place?  I  know  it  must  be 
where  I  can  do  my  duty.  But  must  it  not 


2io          Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters. 

be  rather  a  demon's  hand  than  an  angel's,  which 
bears  the  sword  that  would  drive  me  from 
you,  and  perhaps  would  force  me  to  vow  to 
love  where  I  cannot  love,  honor  where  I  cannot 
honor,  cherish  where  I  can  only  tolerate — perhaps 
where  I  cannot  be  strong  enough  to  do  that — per- 
haps where  thoughts  even  of  murder,  are  more  apt 
to  crowd  than  thoughts  of  protection  ?  Must  I, 
who  have  been  so  weak,  undertake  a  task  in  which 
I  must  assume  myself  so  strong  that  omnipotent 
Nature  herself  can  have  no  control  of  me  ?  Was  duty 
ever  the  impossible  ?  Is  the  impossible  my  duty  ? 
If  not,  what  is  my  duty  ?  Must  I  live  a  thing  for 
which  language  has  no  word — a  man  with  all  the 
powers  and  passions  of  a  man,  forbidden  to  exer- 
cise the  best  of  them — a  man  with  a  love — an  ado- 
ration in  his  soul  that  would  purify  Gehenna,  for- 
bidden to  let  the  good  thing  in  him  come  forth  to 
be  blessed  and  (may  I  dare  think  ?)  to  bless  ? 

"  Must  you —     But  I  will  not  dare. 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  with  our  lives  ?  They  are 
of  each  other,  even  if  we  never  meet  again — inevi- 
table parts  of  each  other,  unworthy  as  mine  has 
been.  But  since  yours  has  touched  it,  mine  has 
been  pure  as  Saint  Anthony's.  How  fan  it  be  right, 
then,  to  sunder  them  ? 

"  Perhaps  it  were  a  more  manly  part  not  to  put 
questions  before  you,  but  to  decide  all  myself,  and 
then  to  try  to  lead  you  to  my  decision.  But  I  have 
lost  the  right  to  do  that — even  a  man's  right  to 
test  my  strength.  You  have  purified  me,  but  I 
have  erred:  whenever  I  try  to  conclude,  up  comes 
that  thought,  worse  than  the  memento  mori — 


Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters.          2 1 1 

'  You  have  erred  !  Be  not  wise  in  your  own  con- 
ceit.' May  I  say  it  to  you,  pure  soul  ? — I 
thought  I  had  Nature's  right  to  do  wrong.  How 
then  can  I  decide  in  favor  of  any  inclination  now, 
lest  I  be  the  victim  of  some  sophism  again  ? 

"But  what  inclination  toward  you  can  be  aught 
but  good  ?  You  have  redeemed  me,  Madonna: 
take  me  into  Heaven!" 

Nina  blushed  two  or  three  times  at  the  boldness 
which  the  boy's  agony  had  forced  him  into,  and 
finally  smiled  through  her  tears,  at  seeing  the  mun- 
dane capture  the  transcendental  with  which  he 
had  begun  his  letter;  and  she  was  not  sorry  for  it. 
At  length  she  answered  him. 

Nina  Wahring  to  Muriel  Calmire. 

" EAST  36TH  ST., 

NEW  YORK,  Dec.  29,  18 — . 

"Muriel,  I  have  written  you  a  dozen  letters,  and 
torn  them  up  because  they  said  too  much  or  too 
little.  This  one  I  am  going  to  send,  and  going  to 
let  it  say  all  it  will — probably  both  too  much  and 
too  little.  I  have  no  hope  of  ever  writing  to  you 
again,  and  for  this  once,  I  am  going  to  write  with 
my  heart  as  open  to  you  as  I  wish  it  could  be 
always. 

"  I  must  not  write  again,  because  writing  tends  to 
draw  us  both  from  our  duty.  I  write  now  mainly 
to  tell  you  that.  You  ask  if  our  first  duty  is  not 
to  marry,  and  let  all  other  duties  be  determined 
by  that.  Exactly  what  your  duty  is,  or  may  be,  I 
do  not  pretend  to  judge.  But  whatever  it  may  be, 
where  it  belongs  was  determined  before  you  saw 
me,  and  therefore  your  relation  to  me  cannot  be 


212          Some   Travel  and  Some  Letters. 

first.  Plainly  my  duty  to  you  is  not  to  interfere 
with  that  which  claims  you  first,  and  I  cannot 
marry  you  and  leave  you  as  free  as  you  would 
otherwise  be  for  whatever  demands  that  first  duty 
may  impose. 

"  Those  are  the  reasons  why  I  cannot  continue 
writing  to  you.  It  is  not  as  if  we  could  be  mere 
friends.  Therefore  as  we  have  no  right  to  be  more 
than  friends,  we  must  be  less,  except  in  our  mem- 
ories. Perhaps  we  can  be  to  each  other  such  mem- 
ories as  help.  You  tell  me,  and  I  love  you  more  for 
it,  if  that  were  possible, — or  would  if  it  were  right — 
that  you  are  content,  or  at  least  determined,  if  duty 
demands,  to  hold  me  as  such  a  memory — as  one 
remote  and  inaccessible  who  yet  sympathizes  and 
approves.  If,  despite  all  prudence,  you  w/7/make 
me  that  being,  I  will  at  least  try  to  be  worthy. 
The  thought  that  you  so  regard  me  will  help  and, 
I  may  say  it  now,  console  me. 

"  It  is  so  pitiful  to  see  you  turn  even  to  my  igno- 
rance for  guidance  in  your  perplexities!  I  wish  I 
could  give  you  some,  but  I  am  not  wise,  I  can- 
not even  be  good,  for  I  will  turn  toward  you  when 
perhaps  I  ought  not;  and  some  strange  sense  has 
come  to  me,that  to  be  wise  is  to  be  good."  ["  Poor 
white  dove !"  thought  Muriel  as  he  kissed  the 
paper,  and  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  "  But  what 
she  says  is  true  for  me.  If  I'd  been  better,  I'd  have 
been  wiser.  After  all,  it's  best  to  begin  at  good- 
ness, as  the  women  do."]  "  I  only  know,"  con- 
tinued the  letter,  "as  I  knew  when  I  turned  you 
out  of  your  uncle's  house,  that  I  must  not  stand 
between  you  and  some  dark  and  undefined  duty. 


Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters.  2 1 3 

"  But  I  did  not  turn  you  out,  though,  did  I, 
Muriel  ?  You  may  know,  if  you  care  to,  that  I  am 
crying  now.  Yes,  I  want  you  to  know  it.  I  may 
indulge  myself  that  far.  Oh  !  If  we  but  had  the 
right —  But  it  would  be  weak  and  not  even  kind, 
:o  say  it :  you  are  enduring  enough  already  ! 

"  Come,  I  will  be  cheerful.  You  should  see  what 
fun  I  have  with  the  children  at  Mary's  home,  and 
sometimes  at  the  school  when  Mary  lets  me  teach 
them  a  little.  I  love  them  and  they  love  me,  or 
the  things  I  bring  them.  Mary  won't  let  me  bring 
them  much  candy.  For  their  sake,  I  have  had  to 
learn  about  digestion  and  lots  of  other  horrid 
things  that  are  perfectly  delightful.  Muriel,  one 
can't  be  miserable  all  the  while,  and  yet  I  believe 
that  you  are  so  nearly  an  impulsive  poet,  that  you 
think  it  your  duty  to  be.  Don't  you  ?  Well,  don't 
do  it!  Be  just  as  cheerful  as  you  can.  I  am.  But 
oh  God!  There,  I'm  mean  and  weak  again!  But 
this  is  the  last  letter  I  shall  write  you,  and  I'm 
going  to  be  natural,  or  at  least,  after  anything 
gets  written,  I  won't  cross  it  out.  Oh  I  do  so  want 
to  write  something  that  will  help  you  and  do  you 
good  !  All  this  seems  so  dry  and  cold.  My  heart 
won't  go  into  it,  because  my  conscience  frightens 
my  heart  off. 

"  I  think  you  are  too  hard  on  yourself  in  some 
ways.  You  say  that  you  cannot  now  know  what 
is  right,  because  you  have  done  wrong.  I  do  not 
feel  sure  that  a  person  who  had  never  known  wrong, 
would  have  a  clearer  sense  of  right  than  a  person 
who  knew  both  sides.  Surely  one  is  more  apt  to 
be  afraid  of  errors  after  suffering  for  them.  But 


2 14  Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters. 

your  repentance,  if  that  is  the  word  for  me  to  use, — 
and  surely  you  are  filled  with  all  the  good  feelings 
that  go  with  that  word — your  repentance  seems  to 
me  to  go  to  extremes  and  to  lead  you  to  do  your- 
self wrong.  You  are  still  strong  and  true,  as  I 
have  always  known  you — despising  deceit  and 
loving  the  right,  only  now  you  are  no  longer  care- 
less about  your  duty  to  follow  the  right.  Keep  on 
as  you  have  been  going  lately,  and  you  must  make 
vour  walk  useful  and  noble,  wherever  it  leads. 
I  catch  some  glimpse  now  of  what  is  meant  by 
happiness  being  within,  and  not  without.  How 
many  happy  lives,  or  at  least  peaceful  and  useful 
ones,  have  none  of  the  outer  sources  of  happiness 
— or  what  is  infinitely  worse,  have  lost  them  !  I 
learn  much  from  being  with  Mary.  She  is  gen- 
erally perfect  sunshine.  I  think  the  times  of  de- 
pression she  often  has,  come  from  illness;  and 
something  I  heard  the  doctor  say  makes  me  think 
that  the  fits  of  illness  come  from  an  early  nervous 
shock  that  I  know  she  had,  and  think  she  has 
never  got  over.  But  you  are  such  a  rock  that 
no  strain  on  you  is  going  to  make  you  ill  for 
long.  You  need  not  long  suffer  from  depression. 
Think,  if  you  will,  of  those  same  poor  monks 
you  wrote  me  about.  How  many  of  them,  after 
having  to  give  up  everything  that  most  men 
care  for,  have  led  lives  full  of  peace  and  useful- 


ness 


"  You  say  you  will  live  in  the  world.  Why  not  ? 
All  ways  to  usefulness  are  open  there.  You  can  be 
busy, and  /know  that  to  be  busy  is  to  be  at  peace, 
I  don't  know  whether  it  is  best  for  you  to  travel  any 


Some  Travel  and  Some  Letters.  2 1 5 

more.     Seeing  things  does  not  help  one  like  doing 
things. 

"  Here  I  am,  making  myself  a  counselor  to  you  ! 
But  as  I  cannot  be  everything  to  you,  perhaps  it 
would  be  wisest  not  to  attempt  to  be  anything. 
Yet  if  you  were  fainting,  could  not  I  give  you  a  cup 
of  water?  And  your  letter  makes  me  feel  that 
writing  to  you,  at  least  this  once,  is  like  that. 

"  Many  people  help  me."  [Here  Muriel  thought 
of  Calmire  and  Courtenay  and  cursed  himself  for 
it.  He  was  very  young.]  "  You  ought  not  to  be 
off  there  alone.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  sent  you 
away  !  But  I  did  not  want  you  to  go  so  far  away, 
and  alone,  where  there  is  nobody  to  love  you. 
You  poor  great  big  Muriel,  you  need  to  be  loved 
just  as  much  as  any  child  !"  [Here  poor  Muriel's 
smile  was  like  light  reflected  from  a  sword.]  "  It 
can't  be  wrong  for  me  to  love  you,"  went  on 
the  letter,  "if  I  only  love  you  in  the  right  way 
— as  we  ought  to  love  truth  and  beauty  and 
justice ;  and  not  as  one  loves  a  true  and  beau- 
tiful and  just  man.  But  I  can't!  Oh  I  can't!  And 
so  I  must  not  love  you  at  all !  I  don't  love  you  for 
anything  you  are  ;  but  just  because  you  are  you. 
I'm  afraid  I  would  love  you  if  you  were  bad.  No 
I  wouldn't,  because  then  you  wouldn't  be  you.  So 
keep  good,  Muriel,  keep  good,  though  it  takes  you 
away  from  me.  Perhaps  it  may  be  right  to  love  you 
when  you  are  away  from  me,  and  good  ;  but  I  know 
it  would  be  wrong  to  love  you  if  you  were  near 
me  ;  and  I  couldn't,  either,  because  then  you  would 
not  be  good. 

"  Oh,  my  Love,  my  Love,  my  Love,  Good-bye  !" 


CHAPTER    LVII. 

EXTRACTS     ARRANGED     FROM    THE    DIARY    OF    A    PENI- 
TENT. 

OF  course  the  standard  hero,  on  getting  such  a 
letter  as  Nina  wrote  Muriel,  would  start  off  by 
the  next  train,  or  as  soon  as  he  could  get  his 
armor  on  and  have  his  war-horse  caparisoned  and 
put  on  a  box  car,  to  take  the  lady  by  assault. 
But  Muriel  was  not  the  standard  hero.  He  had 
so  far  outgrown  the  "  marriage-by-capture"  no- 
tions of  his  ancestors,  that  he  considered  ladies 
who  could  be  taken  by  assault,  as  not  worth  hav- 
ing. He  did  consider  this  lady  worth  having ; 
and  therefore  it  did  not  even  enter  his  head  that 
she  could  be  taken  by  assault.  When  she  trusted 
him  so  far  as  to  drift  into  freely  showing  him  her 
love,  she  honored  him  by  knowing  how  implicitly  he 
would  honor  her.  Had  anybody  now  suggested  to 
Muriel,  in  one  of  his  practical  moods,  anything  lower 
than  that,  he  would  have  answered  to  the  effect 
that  if  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life  held  any  chance 
of  his  marrying  Nina,  to  assume  her  capable  of 
marrying  him  at  present,  would  be  to  destroy 
that  chance  ;  and  deeper  down  in  his  soul,  he 
would  have  found  that  his  now  entertaining 
such  an  assumption,  or  her  tolerating  it,  would 
deprive  such  a  chance  of  its  value.  This  of 

course  was   all  very  inconsistent  with  his  having 

216 


Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.      2 1 ; 

lately  tried  to  persuade  Nina  to  marry  him.  But 
was  he  not  young,  and  imaginative,  and  torn  as 
not  only  the  young  are,  between  impulse  and  con- 
science? 

So  instead  of  getting  out  his  lance,  he  got  out 
his  pen,  and  wrote  to  Nina: 

"  My  Lady,  Sovereign  and  Divine,  I  obey  and 
bless  you." 

Then  he  girded  up  his  loins  and  continued  on 
his  lonely  way. 

Here  are  some  of  his  communings,  earlier  and 
later,  with  himself. 


"  This  fitful  old  diary  again  !— Diaries  seem  to 
have  been  kept  by  two  sorts  of  men — those  that 
have  nobody  to  talk  to,  and  those  that  are  always 
talking — those  who  are  generally  alone,  and  those 
who  are  seldom  alone.  Perhaps  that  means  those 
who  are  generally  miserable,  and  those  who  haven't 
time  to  be. 

"  Diary-keeping  is  another  illustration  of  the  way 
extremes  meet.  Perhaps  all  habits  are  shared  by 
men  who,  in  circumstances  and  nature,  are  diamet- 
rically opposite.  And  perhaps  they're  not!  And 
perhaps  everything  is  just  what  it  isn't,  and  every- 
thing isn't  just  what  it  is.  And  perhaps  Hegel 
wasn't  a  fool  after  all !  But  as  he  probably  be- 
lieved he  wasn't,  his  own  system  would  oblige 
him  to  admit  that  he  was. 

"  Well !     This  may  be  at  least  a  diversion  from 


2 1 8      Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

loneliness,  and  even  a  nepenthe  from  despair. 
Communion  of  some  sort  I  must  have — I  can't 
write  letters  all  the  time — and  this,  at  least,  is 
worth  trying.  The  pen  was  always  some  sort  of 
company  to  me,  and  it  helps  me  straighten  things 
out." 

"  I  go  out  into  the  night,  bearing  my  heavy 
question  with  me.  I  ask  it  of  the  earth  and  the 
sky  and  the  stars.  The  only  answer  that  comes  is: 
'  We — the  conditions  of  your  life,  are  around  you. 
We  change  not.  We  do  not  declare  ourselves  to 
him  who  merely  asks,  but  does  no  labor  to  learn. 
What  the  best  labor  can  know,  is  but  little.  That 
little  you  must  work  for,  and  by  it  you  must  guide 
your  life  as  best  you  may.' 

"  It  is  very  merciless!  Never,  indeed,  outside  of 
the  heart  of  man,  have  I  known  any  such  thing  as 
mercy. 

"  And  yet  I  have  not  to  learn  it  all  for  myself.  Am 
I  not  '  the  heir  of  all  the  ages'  ?  Still  I  must  labor 
even  to  learn  the  things  they  have  bequeathed. 
Those  things  come  not  of  themselves." 

"What  a  humbug  I've  been!  That  seems  the 
burden  of  my  thought,  first,  last,  and  all  the  time. 
I've  been  such  a  humbug  to  myself  !" 

"  From  one  little  momentary  act,  months  of 
agonized  uncertainty,  and  probably  two  ruined 
lives  and  one  stunted  one!  But  putting  a  knife 
or  a  bullet  into  a  man,  is  a  little  momentary  act 
tool 


Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.      219 

"  No,  it  isn't!  Each  act  is  the  result  of  long  de- 
velopment of  character,  even  ancestral  develop- 
ment. Then  where's  'God's  justice'  that  they 
prate  so  about?  I  never  saw  any  sign  of  such  a 
thing  outside  of  thinking  man. 

•'  Yet  the  biologists  do  say  that  the  individual 
is  but  a  link  in  a  chain,  and  that  all  the  genera- 
tions are  to  be  regarded  as  but  one  creature. 
There's  some  sort  of  justice,  then,  in  visiting  the 
sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children. 

"  But  how  about  a  God  who  says  he  does  it  be- 
cause he's  '  jealous '  ?"  , 

"  That  notion  Justice .'  There  is  that  act  of 
mine,  done,  fixed,  its  nature  unalterable  by  a  hair's 
breadth,  and  yet  I  can't  tell  if  it  is  going  to  wreck 
my  life,  or  if,  after  more  of  this  suspense,  there 
will  appear  some  way  out.  But  here's  the  rub: 
any  possible  way  out  now,  is  utterly  independent 
of  the  moral  nature  of  my  act — is  probably  in  some 
circumstance  with  which  that  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do;  and  yet  theconsequencesmust  be  mine  all  the 
same!  Where  is  'justice'  then?  I  don't  think  I've 
altogether  deserved  what  has  come  upon  me.  Worse 
fellows  than  I  have  gone  scot-free.  Ah,  I've  often 
heard  Uncle  Grand  say  that  there's  no  'justice'  in 
the  operations  of  natural  law.  But  I  didn't  know 
what  it  meant.  I  don't  seem  to  have  known  what 
anything  meant." 

.  "  Uncle  Grand  said  that  my  act,  if  measured  by  its 
consequences,  must  be  classed  among  the  worst.  Yet 
he  did  not  definitely  assert  that  it  must  be  mea- 


22O     Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

sured  that  way.  (How  few  things  he  definitely  as- 
serts !  And  how  definitely  he  asserts  those  few  !)  I 
don't  think  it  fair  to  measure  it  that  way.  If  a  man 
amuses  himself  with  a  bonfire  which,  much  to  his 
regret,  burns  downs  a  house,  he's  not  guilty  of 
arson." 

"  Uncle  Grand  once  said  to  me,  '  Most  young 
people's  morality  is  a  matter  of  sentiment.  It 
takes  the  fires  of  suffering  to  harden  it  into  prac- 
tice.' I  know  what  he  meant  now.  It's  one  thing 
to  imagine  an  ideal,  but  another  to  live  up  to  it." 

"  I  see  it  all  now!  I  used  to  justify  myself  on 
the  ground  of  Nature  first:  convention  and  even  law 
might  go  hang.  I  see  it!  I  see  itl  Why  wouldn't  I 
learn  it  from  Uncle  Grand  that  night  he  talked  to  me 
about  love  ?  What  is  natural  to  the  lower  creature, 
is  not  natural  to  the  higher.  Here  the  very  Nature  I 
thought  I  followed,  has  been  working  all  the  ages  to 
evolve  the  possibility  of  this  lofty  love  of  one  man  for 
onewoman.  For  a  brief  season  it  filled  mysoulwith 
light,  and  I  had  yearned  for  it  beyond  all  other  yearn- 
ings, even  when  I  let  my  passions  follow  'Nature.' 
The  '  Nature  '  I  followed  was  simply  '  Nature'  in  the 
beasts.  Even  the  swan  is  said  to  be  above  it.  The 
love  of  one  creature  for  but  one  other  creature  was 
a  great  step.  What  a  power  has  monogamy  been 
in  the  evolution  of  man,  society,  poetry — soul!" 

"  Upon  my  soul,  it  strikes  me  that  in  being  '  radi- 
cal,' as  I  have  liked  to  vaunt  myself  in  being,  I 
have  indeed  been  grubbing  around  the  roots,  and 


Extracts  from  tlte  Diary  of  a  Penitent.     221 

kept   my  face  turned  away  from   the  leaves  and 
flowers!" 

"Sometimes  I  lose  my  grip  when  I  think  of 
things  Nature  might  do  for  me,  but  doesn't.  Well, 
at  least  she  does  what  she  gives  me  reason  to  ex- 
pect. Perhaps  the  rest  is  none  of  my  business." 

"  Perhaps  she  does  the  best  for  us  that  she 
can,  after  all !  But  what  a  poor  fist  she  makes 
of  it!" 

"  Nature  is  such  a  fool !  She  makes  birds  with 
beaks  to  catch  worms,  and  gives  worms  colors  to 
prevent  birds  from  seeing  them.  She  gives  tigers 
claws  and  fangs  to  kill  antelopes,  and  antelopes 
swiftness  to  escape  tigers.  And  for  each  one  of 
these  four  gifts,  I've  heard  the  'goodness  of  God' 
descanted  upon.  No!  There's  only  one  way  out 
— to  take  things  as  we  find  them." 

"  Nature  deals  us  our  cards.  I've  played  my 
hand,  and  played  it  like  a  fool.  What  a  hand  it 
was!  And  here's  the  game  lost ! 

"Yet  I  didn't  know!     I  didn't  know! 

"  I  knew  enough.  If  I'd  known  all,  there  would 
have  been  no  merit  in  winning." 

"  There  are  more  perplexities  than  we  can  mas- 
ter in  the  phenomena  our  present  senses  can  re- 
spond to.  It's  lucky  we've  no  more  senses — at  least 
before  we  get  proportionally  more  brain  But  if 
we  could  know  all,  there  would  be  no  such  vir- 


222      Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

tues  as  judgment  and  courage.  The  game  of  life 
would  be  a  mean  thing  if  played  with  loaded  dice. 

"Yet  wouldn't  more  senses  give  us  more  solu- 
tions to  present  perplexities,  and  so  more  time  and 
strength  for  the  new  ones  ? 

"How  I  do  keep  finding  shallowness  in  my 
brilliant-seeming  generalizations  now  !  Is  it  be- 
cause I've  grown  more  willing  to  find  it  ?  There 
can't  be  more  there,  after  a  fellow  has  been  through 
what  I  have." 

"  '  If  one  could  know  all,  there  would  be  no  such 
virtues  as  judgment  and  courage  ' !  An  omniscient 
god  can't  have  them,  then.  What  utter  asses  they 
are  to  try  to  define  a  god,  anyhow  !  Can't  they 
see  their  contradictions  at  every  step  ?  Why  don't 
they  take  what  they  can  learn,  and  stop?" 

"  I'd  be  very  sorry  for  a  god  who  had  to  witness 
all  this  misery." 

"It's  been  getting  plain  to  me  that  if  'God'  is 
an  arbitrary  power — uncertain,  to  be  propitiated 
and  influenced,  man  is  but  a  slave.  But  if  the 
universe  is  moved  by  unerring  Law,  man  is  a  free 
citizen.  The  first  notion  will  do  for  those  who 
made  even  slavery  itself  a  '  divine  institution.' 

"In  our  views  of  the  Universe,  as  in  Jurispru- 
dence, progress  has  meant  the  substitution  of  Law 
for  individual  whim." 

"As  to  gods  in  general,  I  never  heard  of  one 
that  left  a  fellow  much  room  for  self-respect." 


Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.      223 

"How  I  have  always  lived  as  if  Nemesis  were 
going  to  make  exceptions  in  my  favor  !  And  how 
strange  that  /  should  be  this  broken  wretch  !  Well, 
it  widens  my  sympathies." 

"  One  night,  I  remember,  I  preached  to  Her  that 
man  should  be  merciless  with  the  weak  and  af- 
flicted, because  Nature  is.  How  it  expands  a  man's 
views  to  be  one  of  the  weak  and  afflicted  himself! 

"  Once  I  thought  Nature  ought  to  kill  that  poor 
boy,  because  he  was  hopelessly  maimed.  Well,  per- 
haps it's  time  for  Nature  to  kill  me.  All  right1 
I'm  agreeable." 

"  How  much  power  must  have  been  wasted  in 
despair  and  remorse  over  things  that  despair  and 
remorse  can't  change!  As  the  world  grows  wise 
enough  to  steer  clear  of  that  waste,  how  much 
more  power  will  be  left  for  work  and  sympathy!" 

"  What  an  ass  I've  been  always  to  assume  that 
'the  best  will  come' !  The  only  sensible  way  is  to 
expect  the  best,  but  to  act  so  that  you'll  have 
nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with  in  case  of  the 
worst." 

"  If  '  it's  all  right,'  wouldn't  a  good  God  let  us 
know  it  ?  And  if  it's  not  (  all  right,'  there's  not  a 
good  God,  or  not  much  of  a  God. 

"  It's  not  all  right.  That's  plain  enough.  It's 
just  as  right  as  we  see  it,  and  no  more.  What 
would  be  the  use  of  its  being  any  nearer  right  if 
we  don't  see  that  it  is?  Our  very  not-seeing  it, 


224     Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

prevents  its  being  any  righter  than  we  see.  'It 
may  come  right'?  But  that  doesn't  make  it  right 
now.  Well  then,  let's  grin  and  bear  it !  There's 
where  wisdom  begins." 

"  «  All  for  the  best '  ?  All  for  the  best  that  is  pos- 
sible under  our  limitations,  perhaps.  But  that's 
simply  a  truism." 

"  To  be  '  rational '  and  do  without  a  human  sort 
of  God,  is  well  enough  for  happy  people.  I  don't 
find  it  good  for  much  in  misery.  Perhaps  I'm  not 
rational  enough!" 

"A  religion  must  be  a  handy  thing  in  trouble. 
Its  widest  use,  I  suspect,  is  to  make  the  afflicted 
believe  against  all  the  evidence,  that  life  is  less 
hard  than  it  is — Nature  less  merciless.  Yet  I  want 
none  of  it:  let  Truth  hug  me  to  her  breast,  though 
she  be  the  iron  virgin  with  the  knives." 

"  A  very  easy  thing  to  write — that  up  there!  I've 
said  it  often,  I  suppose,  and  so  have  lots  of  others: 
it  sounds  too  well  not  to  have  been  said  a  great 
deal.  But  I  do  believe  I  have  some  realization 
of  what  I'm  saying,  this  time." 

"  How  far  down  into  the  little  details  of  our 
lives — our  characters,  Law  goes!  I've  felt  it  while 
this  misery  has  been  working  in  mine.  Of  course 
that  close  work  is  not  so  hard  to  realize  regarding 
character,  if  every  change  in  character  can  take  place 


Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.     225 

only  with  a  change  in  matter:  we're  used  to  the 
idea  of  Law  in  nerve-cells,  but  that  makes  it 
very  little  easier  to  realize  regarding  events. 
The  care  of  an  all-seeing  God  over  each  footstep, 
if  there  were  any  signs  of  it,  could  be  understood; 
but  it's  not  easy  to  understand  Law  regulating  cir- 
cumstances down  to  such  details.  Yet,  in  a  sense, 
Law  must;  but  certainly  not  in  a  sense  that  averts 
evil.  Law  does  not  avert  floods  and  earthquakes. 
No;  the  conclusion  is  unavoidable  that  it  takes 
care  of  us  to  a  certain  point,  and  that  from  there 
we  must  take  care  of  ourselves.  '  De  Lord  made 
me  so  high,  and  I  growed  de  rest  myself.'  Well,  if 
we  were  taken  care  of  all  the  way  through,  where 
would  liberty  and  character  be  ?" 

"  And  I  thought  that  I  could  fill  my  mind  with 
all  sorts  of  images,  and  at  will  prevent  their  recur- 
rence  !  I  think  I  understand  the  myth  of  Saint 
Anthony." 

"  If  one  could  only  live  in.  the  higher  air,  where 
the  steady  currents  blow!" 

"  How  I've  fooled  myself  with  inconsequences! 
Our  account  with  Nature  is  not  like  a  merchant's, 
where  any  sort  of  asset  will  balance  any  sort  of 
liability.  Truthfulness  won't  balance  profligacy; 
or  kindness,  laziness;  or  continence,  the  small-pox. 
Neither  can  profligacy  entirely  cancel  truthfulness; 
or  laziness,  kindness.  It's  too  late,  though,  for  a 
robber  to  buy  off  by  giving  half  his  plunder  to 
charity,  or  to  save  his  soul  by  building  a  church. 


226     Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

An  old  Scotch  Presbyterian  woman  Uncle  Grand 
used  to  talk  about,  attributed  the  deaths  of  an 
acquaintance's  large  family  of  children,  to  the  fact 
that  the  family  amused  itself  by  playing  cards  in 
the  evening.  That  old  woman  simply  believed  in 
alchemy  and  astrology.  Her  own  sons,  by  the 
way,  grew  up  hale  and  strong,  and  two  out  of 
three  became  notorious  swindlers.  In  the  case  of 
both  families,  of  course  those  who  respected  the 
parents  stood  by  and  wondered  'that  the  good 
should  be  so  afflicted.'  The  parents  being  'good' 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Heart-disease  was 
hereditary  in  one  family,  and  scoundrelism  in  the 
other — from  the  father's  side,  I  suppose,  as  the 
mother  was  such  a  pattern  of  pharisaical  virtue. 

"We've  pretty  much  outgrown  that  order  of  be- 
liefs, but  we  haven't  outgrown  the  involuntary  in- 
tellectual habits  they  engendered,  by  a  long  shot: 
it  has  really  been  something  of  a  surprise  to  me 
that  being  measurably  truthful  and  honest,  or 
trying  to  be,  didn't  protect  me  from  my  troubles. 
Ah  !  Why  did  I  inherit  so  much  superstition?" 

"  Shall  I  repeat,  then,  that  all  superstitions  are 
debasing?  That  depends  upon  the  mind  you  put 
them  in." 

"  I'm  beginning  to  try  to  amuse  myself  a  little. 
As  I  look  at  life  now,  I  suspect  that  anybody  who 
wants  it  all  sunbeams,  must  get  most  of  them  out 
of  cucumbers." 

"I  got  out  my  cornet  to-day  and  played  for  the 
diversion  of  the  boors,  hoping  that  diverting  them 


Extracts  from  tlie  Diary  of  a  Penitent.      227 

might  divert  me.     It  didn't.     It  was  like  food  to  a 
man  with  no  sense  of  taste.     So  with  everything." 

"  A  good,  simple,  sympathetic  soul — the  clergy- 
man of  the  village — met  me  as  I  was  walking  to- 
day. A  flock  of  quail  that  I  had  started  up  had 
flown  within  sight  of  him,  and  so  we  got  to  talk- 
ing. He's  one  of  the  new  sort,  and  knows  a  dog 
and  gun.  One  thing  led  to  another,  until  all  led 
right  up  to  the  fact  that  I  am  miserable,  as  all 
roads  lead  to  Rome.  I  can't  keep  it  entirely 
to  myself.  I  told  him  I  didn't  care  for  shooting 
or  anything  else  now — though  I  have  shot  ? 
little.  Truth  is,  though  I  didn't  tell  him,  that 
I've  grown  too  chicken-hearted,  or  possibly  too 
sympathetic,  to  cause  pain  :  know  what  it  is 
myself,  now!  Well,  he  said:  'Poor  boy!'  and 
I  didn't  get  mad.  Then  he  began  very  deli- 
cately, but  at  the  same  time  with  the  old  disgust- 
ing professional  assurance,  to  inquire  into  the 
state  of  my  soul.  I  told  him  flatly  that  I  didn't 
believe  much  of  what  he  thought  most  worth  be- 
lieving. Then  he  began  to  try  and  convert  me, 
but  in  a  very  decent  way.  He  said:  'Christianity 
offers  you  a  loving  God  and  immortality,'  and  the 
rest  of  it.  I  told  him  that  I  hadn't  seen  any  evi- 
dence that  it  could  deliver  what  it  offers,  and  that 
its  'offers'  reminded  me  of  the  architects  who,  I've 
heard  Uncle  Grand  tell,  have  a  fashion,  in  specify- 
ing even  absurd  extravagances  which  one  is  to  pay 
for,  of  saying,  '  I  give  you,'  for  instance,  a  mosaic 
hall  or  a  lapis-lazuli  chimney-piece.  I  hope  I 

said  it  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  hurt  the  good  man's 


228     Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

feelings.  He  seemed  to  take  it  in  good  part.  It's 
a  new  sensation  for  me  to  care  whether  he  did  or 
not,  but  I'm  glad  to  have  the  sensation. 

"'Offers!'  It  might  as  well  offer  'three  acres 
and  a  cow.'  " 

"  After  all,  humanity  all  along  seerrjs  to  have  got 
its  consolations  and  inspirations  from  pretty  much 
the  same  ideas.  The  early  fellows  guess  them 
vaguely,  the  later  ones  make  the  image  clearer 
and  more  detailed. 

"  It's  the  same  with  me,  too.  Here  I  ponder, 
ponder,  ponder,  and  at  last  think  I've  found  some 
great  truth,  and  behold  !  it  phrases  itself  in  some 
platitude  that  I've  been  impatient  at  having 
dinned  into  me  from  the  nursery  up.  Experience 
is  like  the  right  light  on  a  picture. 

"Yet  how  could  those  old  saws  mean  anything 
to  me  before  I  had  experienced  facts  enough  to 
understand  the  generalizations  ?  There's  a  good 
reason  for  what  I've  heard  Uncle  Grand  often  say 
— that  no  experience  but  one's  own,  can  be  of 
much  use." 

"  Here  I  am  on  the  ocean — the  'vast'  ocean  that 
they  talk  about.  It's  simply  the  most  oppressively 
circumscribed  place  I  ever  saw.  The  limits  of  our 
vision  are  distinctly  presented  on  every  side.  Turn 
which  way  one  will,  he  sees  nothing  else  so  marked 
as  that  limit  where  water  and  sky  meet.  On  land, 
there  are  so  many  things  in  between,  that  one  is 
hardly  conscious  of  the  boundary,  even  if  it  be 
much  closer  than  here.  Oh!  I'm  deadly  sick  of 
that  constant  ring  of  sea  and  sky!  But  I'm  always 


Extracts  Jroni  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.      229 

reminded  by  it  now,  of  that  other  limit  against 
which  we  are  always  beating  our  wings,  and  beyond 
which  we  cannot  fly.  Why  not  settle  down,  though, 
and  take  our  limitations  peaceably,  as  the  sailors 
take  the  sea  ?" 

"  At  last  I'm  added  to  the  millions  who  have 
felt  that  human  lives  are  like  these  waves — merely 
shifting  forms  of  a  substance  that  precedes  them 
and  outlasts  them." 

"  But  when  such  a  wave  happens  to"  bear  on  its 
crest,  the  Iliad,  or  Hamlet,  or  the  Sistine  Madonna, 
or  the  Pilgerchor!" 

"I  wonder  if  any  of  those  poor  old  Infallibles 
that  had  such  a  tough  time  of  it  here  at  Avignon, 
ever  was  as  miserable  as  I  am!  They  at  least  al- 
ways had  enough  to  do — quarreling  with  the  other 
Infallibles  down  in  Rome,  or  wherever  else  men 
who  were  not  infallible,  infallibly  elected  one  of 
themselves  to  be  infallible. 

"  They  didn't  have  as  much  chance  as  I  to  feel 
lonely,  anyhow  ! 

"  I  wonder  if  among  the  dozen  or  so  that  were 
here,  there  happened  to  be  a  decent  man — a  quiet 
man  who  '  walked  with  God '  !  Then  he  never 
could  have  been  lonely,  as  I  am!  That's  an  idea! 
But  haven't  I  God  with  me  just  as  much  as  he  had 
with  him  ?  What  is  this  power  that,  independently 
of  any  effort  of  mine,  keeps  my  heart  beating  ? 
What  is  the  Power  that  steadfastly  conditions  this 
Universe,  so  that  the  needle  pointed  my  ship  over 


230    Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

here  through  the  unmarked  waters  and  through 
the  dark?  Ah,  but  those  old  chaps  put  a  sympa- 
thetic soul  behind  it  all,  and  when  they  were 
lonely  and  in  trouble,  consoled  themselves  by 
what  they  were  pleased  to  term  'Communion  with 
Him.' 

"Well!  Haven't  I  felt  some  such  communion? 
Hasn't  something  which  seems,  after  all,  the  best 
in  me,  responded,  at  times,  to  something  beautiful 
and  all-including  outside  of  me  ?  Yes,  but  that's 
not  the  human.  Well!  suppose  it  isn't:  a  good 
many  fellows  have  managed  to  get  along  in  deserts 
alone  with  it.. ..And  a  nice,  lazy,  filthy  lot  they 
were!  Much  they've  done  to  put  food  and  clothing 
and  clean  water  and  healthy  work  and  play  within 
people's  reach! 

"  I  rather  suspect  that  if  a  fellow  is  alone,  and 
craves  sympathy,  the  healthy  thing  for  him  to  do, 
is  to  get  it  or  go  without  it,  and  not  interpret  the 
reactions  of  his  own  mind  as  a  response  from  the 
Power  behind  the  Universe.  That's  a  good  deal 
too  near  to  taking  the  images  in  his  own  brain  for 
material  ones  outside — flat  hallucination,  the  spe- 
cial test  of  insanity." 

"How  rare,  after  all,  is  an  unmixed  feeling,  of 
either  joy  or  sorrow — to  suffer  without  distraction, 
or,  for  that  matter,  to  enjoy  without  it;  to  hate 
without  mercy;  to  love  without  criticism!  Eter- 
nities ago,  when  I  read  novels,  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  life  was  full  of  such  unmixed  feelings,  and 
used  to  think  myself  exceptional  for  not  having 
more.  Now  when  life  is  real,  I  begin  to  see  how 
complex  emotion  is," 


Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.      231 

"  How  the  poetry  is  gone  out  of  the  world! 
Here's  another  fact  that  wipes  out  a  lot  of  it: 
there  can't  be  any  perfect  love,  because  there  can't 
be  any  perfect  woman.  There's  no  getting  around 
heredity.  Why  didn't  I  realize  its  damnable  im- 
plications when  I  was  talking  over  the  same  thing 
with  Uncle  Grand  last  Summer?  I  don't  seem  to 
have  realized  the  force  of  anything  before  I  got 
into  trouble." 

"Yet  there's  more  to  say  on  that  topic — first: 
that  while  writing  yesterday,  I  '  realized '  only  the 
gloomy  side  of  the  case — that  I  really  did  not  see 
the  subject  with  new  light,  but  with  part  of  the  old 
light  obscured,  as  I  find  I've  done  more  than  once 
lately;  and  second  that  there  can't  be  any  perfect 
man  either,  and  it  needs  a  perfect  being  to  feel 
perfect  love,  as  well  as  to  inspire  it. 

"  And,  too,  come  to  think  of  it,  I've  read  of-  other 
ideals  of  love  than  love  for  a  perfect  creature. 
A  good  many  millions  among  the  most  advanced 
peoples  have,  it  just  occurs  to  me,  been  consider- 
ably influenced  by  an  ideal  of  love  for  //^perfect 
creatures,  which  they  have  exalted  into  something 
superhuman. 

"I  remember  Uncle  Grand  told  me  the  night 
after  I  first  drove  with  Her,  that  I  must  suffer  be- 
fore I  could  love  in  the  great  way.  His  words 
were  meaningless  to  me  then.  They  certainly  are 
not  now.  I  wonder  if  I  can  love  in  the  great  way 
yet!" 

"The  instinct  of  worship  is  an  old  one  and  well 
ground  in.  When  my  soul  expands  at  the  sunset 


232    Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent. 

and  the  dawn  and  under  the  deep  stars,  and  grows 
profound  and  beautiful  with  them,  up  comes  that 
instinct  of  all  the  generations.  But  I  do  not  crave 
an  anthropomorphic  god:  yet  I  crave  understand- 
ing, sympathy,  response.  Sometimes  I  feel  them  in 
the  Immensity:  yet  even  at  those  times,  I  most  crave 
them  from  Her.  Would  it  drive  me  mad  if  I  were 
to  indulge  myself  in  grouping  all  those  yearnings 
around  her  ?  She  is  now  as  far  removed  from  me  as 
any  god  in  far  Olympus  or  'In  Heaven.  Yet  wher- 
ever she  is,  she  inspires  me  and  holds  me  to  my  duty. 
Her  soul  reaches  out  to  the  measure  of  this  Uni- 
verse as  no  imagined  god's  has  ever  done.  She  is 
full  of  sweetest  sympathies  and  completest  re- 
sponses, and,  as  when  she  saw  me  last,  of  unfathom- 
able motherliness.  Her  grand  and  most  lovely  face 
tells  things  that  Raphael's  dreams  could  reach  but 
once.  With  reverence  greater  than  my  forebears 
ever  felt,  I  worship  her!  My  Madonna!  Oh  my 
Madonna!" 

"  Why,  from  all  her  abounding  loveliness,  should 
my  memory  so  often  turn  to  that  little  blue  vein 
just  below  the  palm  of  her  hand,  in  the  soft  depres- 
sion of  her  white  round  wrist  ?" 

"  How  often  I  recall  that  night  when  I  asked  her 
if  she  thought  I'd  been  spoiled  by  the  lack  of  a 
mother,  and  she  said, '  Awfully  near  it! '  I  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  what  she  meant.  Well,  here  I 
am!" 

"  She  didn't  mean  that,  though.  No,  but  she 
meant  a  million  possibilities  which  included  that 
among  them,  though  her  pure  soul  never  definitely 
reflected  it." 


Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Penitent.     233 

"  I  wonder  if  Uncle  Grand,  either,  had  in  mind 
anything  definite,  when  he  prophesied  that  she 
would  do  something  colossal  !  He  couldn't  have 
had  !  There  was  something  colossal,  though,  in 
what  she  did  for  me  when  I  saw  her  last.  When- 
ever I  think  of  it,  it  makes  me  big." 

"  I  have  always  admired  greatness  of  soul,  and  so 
inferred  that  I  had  it.  I've  always  admired  the 
power  to  lift  a  ton,  but  never  inferred  that  I  had 
that  !  I'm  stronger  than  I  was,  though." 

"To  live  away  from  her,  chained  to  my  hard 
duty,  and  to  feel  that  I  am  doing  it  to  make  me 
worthy  of  that  minute  when  I  saw  her  last ! 
There's  inspiration  !  But  Heavens!  Can  I  ?  Was 
ever  man,  man  enough  ?  I  can  and  I  will !" 

"  There's  a  great  fascination  in  rhetoric !  What's 
the  use  of  my  trying  to  make  myself  out  heroic 
in  staying  away  from  her,  when  I  know  perfectly 
well  that  she  would  not  take  me  to  her  if  I  left  a 
single  duty  outside  ?  Well  !  That's  no  reason  I 
shouldn't  do  the  duty.  I  do  hope,  though,  that 
some  day  I'm  going  to  get  through  cackling  over 
doing  a  duty,  like  a  hen  over  laying  an  egg. 

"  I  prate  of  duty  !  What  duty  am  I  doing  ? 
Well,  I'm  at  least  resisting  my  old  ways;  and  if  a 
time  comes  for  me  to  do  more,  I'm  going  to  do 
it :  that's  all," 


CHAPTER   LVIII. 

DE    PROFUNDIS. 

UNDER  the  conditions  and  influences  already  in- 
dicated, Minerva  had  passed  a  Winter  not  wholly 
devoid  of  peace  or  profit.  A  little  discreet  man- 
agement had  prevented  her  whereabouts  being 
known  to  any  person  whom  she  was  not  willing 
should  know  it.  She  had  come  to  rely  upon  Mrs. 
John  as  a  beneficent  Providence,  and  to  feel  that 
her  unending  kindness  and  wisdom  would  in  some 
way  provide  that  the  future  should  be  tolerable 
at  least. 

But  now  into  the  midst  of  this  good  handling  of 
a  bad  situation,  came  a  cataclysm.  Mrs.  John's 
heart  had  not  been  beating  all  these  years  for  all 
the  sorrows  in  the  village,  without  being  affected 
by  its  labors.  She  had  known  it  long,  and  lately 
John  had  known  it,  and  that  tender  gentleman's 
quiet  solicitude  for  her  was  a  poem,  in  spite  of  all 
his  professed  hatred  of  poetry. 

While  in  her  simple  mind  there  was  unbounded 
room  for  pity  and  forgiveness,  there  were  none 
of  the  subtle  allowances  for  temptation  which 
make  it  cancel  "sin,"  and  Muriel's  sin  had  been 
the  heaviest  of  all  the  burdens  which,  up  to  that 
time,  her  patient  heart  had  borne.  But  now  the 
child  was  come,  and  the  gentle  lady  was  called 

234 


De  Profundis.  235 

upon  to  bear  greater  anxieties  for  the  future  than, 
with  her  other  cares,  she  was  equal  to.  Happily 
for  Muriel,  he  did  not  know  anything  of  this  con- 
sequence of  his  act,  or  suspect  anything  of  it  until 
later,  when  he  was  better  able  to  bear  it,  though 
also  better  capable  of  realizing  it  as  an  illustration  of 
the  unending  ramifications  of  the  risks  assumed  by 
one  who  disturbs  the  moral  equilibrium  of  things. 

So  Mrs.  John  was  dying.  It  was  not  from  a 
gradual  and  unremitting  failure  of  her  powers, 
but  from  attacks  increasing  in  frequency  and  in- 
tensity, which  she  now  knew  would  soon  be 
stronger  than  she  was. 

Not  long  after  this  conviction  became  established 
in  her  mind,  she  determined  upon  one  thing 
that  she  could  do  for  Muriel.  It  was  a  bold 
thing,  such  as  gentle  creatures,  in  extreme  issues, 
dare  to  do.  Early  in  May,  she  sent  for  Nina 
Wahring,  and  talked  with  her  for  three  hours, 
bringing  on  herself,  as  she  knew  she  would,  utter 
prostration  and  the  most  alarming  attack  of  her 
malady  that  she  had  yet  experienced.  The  details 
of  that  interview,  Nina  never  alluded  to,  except  with 
one  person,  but  its  results  were  in  time  obvious  to 
several. 

The  third  morning  after  it  took  place,  a  boy  sent 
by  Dinah  brought  a  letter  for  Mrs.  John.  Nina 
Wahring,  who  had  not  left  John's  house  since  the 
interview  mentioned,  took  the  letter,  saying  that 
Mrs.  John,  who  was  very  ill,  had  instructed  her  to. 

Five  hours  later,  Calmire,  v/ho  had  ridden  over 
in  response  to  a  telegram  from  John,  was  met  at 
the  door  by  his  brother,  who  had  awaited  and 


236  De  Profundis. 

recognized,  far  off,  Malzour's  trot  free  from  the  roll 
of  wheels.  With  a  set  face,  John  opened  the  door 
and  said,  as  they  grasped  hands:  "She's  dead! 
I'm  glad  you've  come." 

Calmire  only  pressed  his  brother's  hand,  and 
then  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  into  the 
dining-room.  There  he  said  :  "  Light  a  cigar  and 
let  us  go  onto  the  back  piazza." 

John  mechanically  did  as  he  was  bid.  He  was  a 
man  of  wonderful  self-control  and,  despite  his  re- 
mote French  ancestor,  had  enough  Anglo-Saxon  in 
him  always  to  show  less  than  he  felt. 

As  the  brothers  silently  seated  themselves  in  the 
arm-chairs,  Calmire  left  his  right  hand  resting  on 
his  brother's  arm  for  some  minutes,  neither  of  them 
speaking.  Thesemenhadk;c^be7ondtheneedto"say 
something"  when  together,  **.  length  John  spoke: 

"  Well !  I  suppose  yon're  prepared  to  prove  that 
the  whole  thing's  not  a  humbug  !" 

"  Oh,  Amelia  proved  that,  John  !" 

"  Yes,  so  she  did." 

Another  silence  of  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
John  spoke  agairi  with  a  rough  suddenness  : 

"Calmire,  did  any  man  ever  succeed  in  not  fool- 
ing with  this  immortality  question?" 

"  I  suspect  not,  John,  when  he  was  brought  face 
to  face  with  it." 

"Well,  did  any  man  ever  succeed  in  holding 
himself  good  and  tight  to  a  neutral  position  on  it  ?" 

"  Not  without  tfs,  I  fancy :  at  least,  when  the 
man  had  any  blood  in  him." 

After  another  little   silence,  John    said:    "You 


De  Profundis.  237 

cant  know  how  good  she  was,  Calmire.  Nobody 
can  but  me."  And  his  voice  faltered. 

"Yes,  John,  I've  been  blessed  by  knowing  how 
good  a  woman  can  be  :  so  I  do  know  how  good 
Amelia  was.  And  her  life  in  this  place  gave  such 
opportunities  to  develop  the  best  that  was  in  her!" 

"  Yes,  she  took  care  of  everybody." 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Calmire.  Then  after  a  moment 
he  added:  "  Well,  there  are  some  things  that  I  must 
take  care  of  now.  Have  you  any  special  wishes  ?" 

"  Only  to  be  left  alone  by  pretty  much  everybody 
but  you.  I  suppose  there  must  be  some  sort  of  a 
ceremony  to  satisfy  her  people.  But  I  don't  want 
to  be  tortured  with  it." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  go  back  to  Fleuvemont 
with  me  ?" 

"  I  guess  so,  but  yet  I  do  at  times  feel  like 
lingering  near — near  what  is  left,  even  though 
Nature  declares  that  I  must  leave  it." 

Poor  John,  during  the  dreads  of  recent  months, 
had  unconsciously  got  his  opinions  pretty  well 
formulated.  For  the  first  time  in  their  talk,  his 
mouth  was  trembling. 

And  Calmire  thought  of  the  sympathy  between 
this  hard-headed  brother  of  his  who  generally  pro- 
fessed so  much  contempt  for  sentiment,  and  the 
creatures  really  no  more  faithful,  but  only  less 
reasoning,  who  linger  by  clay  they  love  even  to 
their  own  death;  and  then  there  flashed  through 
his  mind  the  mortuary  customs  of  many  peoples. 
All  that  occurred  to  him  to  say,  however,  was: 
"You're  wiser  than  the  Egyptians,  John." 

"  Yes.     I  don't  intend  to  have  my  reason  upset 


238  &e  Profundis. 

by  whatever  vices  of  that  kind  may  be  in  my  blood. 
Whatever  I  feel,  I  know  it's  best  that  my  associa- 
tion with  her  should,  as  nearly  as  possible,  end 
where  Nature  ended  it.  It  would  be  a  relief  if 
memory  alone  could  be  left.  After  all,  anything 
more  that  can  intervene,  is  simply  horrible." 

"You  feel  precisely  as  I  should,  precisely  as  I 
have  felt;  and  I  will  do  what  I  can  to  meet  your 
feelings." 

After  a  moment,  Calmire  added:  "  Will  you  take 
the  children  too  ?  Will  they  be  willing  to  go  ?" 

"  Entirely.  I  can  trust  the  older  ones  to  feel  as 
I  do.  Of  course  the  younger  don't  think  much 
about  it." 

"  Is  anybody  here  besides  the  servants  ?" 

"Yes.  Nina,  and  Amelia's  sister  Agnes  and  her 
husband.  Those  two  are  disposed  to  all  the  neces- 
sary absurd  conventions.  Leave  things  to  them. 
I  suppose,"  he  added  bitterly,  "that  it's  not  es- 
sential to  the  dignity  of  the  occasion,  that  our 
spirits  should  commune  with  tailors  and  semp- 
stresses before  we  are  permitted  to  face  the  light 
of  Heaven." 

"I'd  leave  that  whole  nuisance  until  it  comes  up 
of  itself,"  said  Calmire.  "  If  you  feel  like  it, 
there'll  be  time  enough.  We  may  as  well  go  at 
once.  I  shall  come  back  to-morrow.  Any  instruc- 
tions about  the  traps  ?" 

"  You  come  in  the  T-cart,"  answered  John.  "  I'll 
drive;  and  I  want  to  take  Genevieve  on  the  seat 
with  me.  The  other  children  and  a  maid  or  two 
can  be  piled  into  the  wagonette.  I'll  go,  and  ar- 
range it  all  right  away.  You  stay  here.  Or,  order 


De  Profundis.  239 

the  carriages,  if  you'll  be  so  good.     We  shall  be 
ready  as  soon  as  they  are." 

And  they  separated  for  their  respective  prepara- 
tions. 

When  John  told  Genevieve  of  their  plans,  she 
said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation:  "Papa,  dear, 
Effie  had  better  ride  in  the  carriage  with  us.  It 
makes  no  difference  about  the  younger  children, 
but  when  she's  not  with  you,  she  wants  to  be  all 
the  time  with  me.  I  would  like  to  sit  by  you;  but 
if  you  sit  with  Uncle  Grand,  I  shall  do -very  well 
taking  care  of  Effie." 

"  You're  your  mother's  child,  darling,"  said  John, 
kissing  her.  And  until  they  joined  Calmire,  he 
kept  by  the  child's  side  as  if  he  were  some  depend- 
ent creature. 

When  they  started,  Calmire  saw  John's  face 
seek  some  upper  windows  with  an  expression  that 
was  pitiful  to  see,  and  his  muscles  convulsively 
contract  until  he  almost  stopped  the  horses.  But 
in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  he  jerked  his 
head  square  to  the  front,  said  :  "  Come,"  to  the 
horses,  as  his  way  was;  and,  as  his  way  was  not  at 
starting,  picked  up  the  whip  and  put  them  into  a 
brisk  trot.  Then,  instead  of  driving  nearly  half 
around  the  square  and  through  the  main  street,  as 
he  usually  did,  he  went  up  the  side  street  near  his 
house  and  kept  through  by-ways  until  they  had 
gone  quarter  around  the  town  and  struck  the  main 
road  outside  of  it.  The  moment  John  pulled  the 
horses'  heads  in  the  unaccustomed  direction,  Cal- 
mire understood,  and  unconsciously  threw  his  arm 
over  the  back  of  the  seat  so  that  it  touched  John. 


240  De  Profundis. 

Nobody  had  ever  before  seen  him  in  that  position 
in  a  vehicle. 

They  had  not  been  in  the  country  long,  before 
John  moderated  the  quick  pace  he  had  been  driv- 
ing, He  seemed  soothed  by  the  great  soft  influ- 
ences of  the  sky  and  earth 

For  a  mile  or  two,  nobody  spoke  but  the  chil- 
dren. Genevieve,  on  the  back  seat  with  Effie, 
had  got  her  much  interested  in  the  objects  they 
were  passing.  While  their  attention  was  obviously 
absorbed,.  John  broke  silence,  half-meditating, 
with  : 

"  Mow  about  this  immortality  business  ?" 

"  Ah,"  answered  Calmire.  "  The  question  won't 
down  when  it  comes  home  to  one's  very  self,  will  it  ?" 

"  No.     It  won't." 

"I  understand,"  said  Calmire. 

"Yet  I  can  grin  and  bear  it,"  said  John,  but  he 
nearly  bit  his  cigar  in  two.  Then  he  went  on: 
"  Once  while  this  was  coming,  Courtenay  said  to 
me,  '  Let  us  pray  that  it  may  be  averted  ! '  and  I 
had  a  queer  feeling  that  seemed  disloyal  to  Her, 
but  I  understand  it  now." 

"  What  was  it  ?" 

For  a  moment  John  searched  for  expressions. 
Then  he  said  :  "  I  didn't  want  to  feel  that  there  are 
any  uncertainties  in  life  and  death  but  those  of  our 
own  ignorance  and  weakness.  What  has  come  to 
her  cannot  be  worse,  nor  can  even  what  has  come 
to  me,  than  it  would  be  to  live  in  a  world  ruled  by 
fluctuating  laws." 

"John,  you've  struck  bottom!"  exclaimed  Cal- 
mire. 


De  Profundis,  24  r 

"Yes,"  answered  John,  with  a  long  breath,  "  I've 
struck  bottom!  God,  how  deep  it  is!" 

After  a  moment  Calmire  said:  "You're  not  the 
man  to  blink  anything  about  it.  Yet  there's  a 
good  deal  to  be  said  without  blinking  anything. 
Do  you  care  to  talk,  though  ?" 

"Yes,  it  will  do  me  good.  I  feel  better  out  here. 
What  a  thing  a  river  is!" 

"  Yes — it's  even  ^more  soothing  than  a  cigar. 
Well,  now  if  you  really  care  to  talk,  John:  you  re- 
member Ted  Bargwin  from  whom  you  couldn't 
live  apart  until  you  were  seventeen  or  so?  When 
did  you  see  him  last?" 

"  Some  twenty  years  ago." 

"You'd  been  separated  twelve  years?" 

"Yes,  and  I  found  him  simply  a  nuisance.  I  see 
what  you're  coming  to.  It's  tough." 

"It's  not  as  tough  as  it  looks  at  first  sight.  For 
if  we  imagine  meeting  those  who,  as  some  say, 
have  'gone  before,'  we  may  as  well,  while  we're 
about  it,  imagine  them  freed  from  all  the  influ- 
ences which  made  Ted  disagreeable  to  you — free 
from  the  things  that  belittle  us,  so  we  may  as  well 
imagine  them  simply  improved  in  every  way." 

"  But,"  asked  John,  "  how  about  our  precious 
selves?  Perhaps  they  might  not  regard  us  any 
more  favorably  than  I  regarded  Ted." 

"And  there's  a  reason  for  doing  our  best!"  re- 
sponded Calmire,  "and  that  is  what  I've  been 
'coming  to.'  There's  a  big  inspiration  in  it!" 

"But  a  fellow  has  so  little  chance  to  lead  a  big 
life!"  John  complained.  "And  those  who've  got 
out  of  this  mess,  may  have  so  much  chance." 


242  De  Profundis. 

"Suppose  they  do!"  was  Calmire's  comment. 
"  They  may  have  a  chance,  withal,  to  learn  how  to 
be  charitable  and  patient  with  us." 

"True!"  John  exclaimed.  "But  here's  another 
trouble.  What  satisfaction  can  they  take  all  by 
themselves — out  there  in  the  cold  ?"  and  he  shud- 
dered— his  terrible  strain  had  weakened  him.  Then 
he  went  on.  ".In  spite  of  everything,  they  must 
either  be  wretched  or  get  absorbed  in  something — 
something  that  we  know  nothing  about  and  can't 
be  interested  in.  Just  the  same  way,  we  in  time 
must  get  absorbed  in  what  they're  not  interested 
in.  No  !  It's  all  nonsense  to  talk  about  our  sym- 
pathies being  kept  up  when  there's  no  communi- 
cation." 

"  John,  haven't  you  pondered  sometimes  on  what 
it  is  for  a  man  to  keep  the  course  of  his  own  life  at 
one  with  the  course  of  the  universe?" 

"  Some  vague  notions  in  this  direction  have 
crossed  my  mind  once  or  twice." 

"Now,"  resumed  Calmire,  "the  course  of  the 
universe  is  definite  and  consistent.  Two  people 
who  cannot  communicate  with  each  other,  can 
walk  as  close  to  it  as  they  may  be  able.  If  they  do 
that,  though  they  may  not  be  very  near  each  other, 
they  will  at  least  be  on  paths  that  do  not  diverge. 
Such  notions  become  very  clear  and  strong,  when 
one  feels  that  leading  such  a  life  is  the  only  con- 
ceivable means  of  saving  the  dearest  sympathy  he 
has  ever  known.  When  a  man  gets  his  slavish 
allegiance  to  a  fickle  God,  expanded  into  intelligent 
cooperation  with  steadfast  Law,  and  then  feels 
that  in  such  cooperation  he  may  be  still  living  in 


De  Profundis.  243 

sympathy  with  one  whom  he  has  loved  with  all  his 
soul,  and  lost,  he  has  the  strongest  incentive  to 
right  living  that  has  yet  been  found  out,  so  far  as 
I  know." 

"It's  a  good  deal  of  a  notion,"  said  John  medi- 
tatively. "  I  wonder  if  they  had  any  grip  on  it  when 
they  began  to  preach  that  one  who  lives  according 
to  God's  law,  will  meet  the  loved  ones  gone  before 
in  Heaven  ?" 

"  Not  a  very  clear  grip,  I  suspect,"  answered 
Calmire.  "  But  I'm  more  struck  every  day  with 
the  fact  that  pretty  much  all  our  ideas  have  been 
guessed  at  in  some  fashion  before." 

John  pulled  hard  on  his  cigar  for  a  few  seconds 
and  then  said: 

"  Calmire,  I'm  half  afraid  of  playing  with  this 
immortality  question,  even  as  far  as  you've  been 
speaking  of  it:  it  unsettles  a  man.  I'd  get  to 
going  farther,  and  imagining  and  doing  all  sorts 
of  things — praying  to  her,  for  all  I  know.  Even 
now,  I  generally  think  of  myself  before  her,  as  on 
my  knees.  It  would  drive  me  crazy  to  think  much 
about  her,  except  as  in  the  past." 

"  That  depends  upon  whether  you  let  what  you 
think  run  counter  to  what  you  know.  To  follow 
Nature,  as  we  were  talking  of  a  moment  ago, 
is  to  make  no  assumptions  beyond  the  bounds 
Nature  has  set  for  our  knowledge.  Live  as  a 
wise  man  would  live  anyhow;  you  will  have  a 
new  incentive  now.  My  counsel  really  is  to  avoid 
the  very  extravagances  you  dread.  You're  in -the 
situation  of  Orpheus  over  again — you  must  keep 
your  eyes  to  the  front." 


244  De  Profundis. 

"All  right,"  said   poor  John,  with  a  sickly  at- 
tempt at  a  smile,  "I'll  keep  my  eyes  on  you." 

"And  yet,"  continued  Calmire  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "there's  another  important  thing  that 
doesn't  seem  to  have  been  dwelt  upon  as  much 
as  the  immortality  question:  probably  because 
there's  no  selfish  side  to  it.  That  is,  the  influence 
of  the  memory  of  our  dead,  utterly  independent 
of  the  question  of  joining  them  again.  I  don't 
know  but  what  it's  rooted  in  some  notion  of  their 
survival  and  supervision  of  our  acts.  But  in  the 
best  form  I  know  of,  it  seems  a  very  single  desire 
to  be  worthy  of  what  they  have  been  to  us.  There's 
lots  of  imagination  in  the  feeling,  lots  of  exal- 
tation, very  likely  lots  of  superstition:  but  what- 
ever it  is,  I  don't  believe  any  man  knows  what 
lofty  incentive  is,  until  he  has  had  to  mourn." 
"  Pretty  superstitious  for  you,  Calmire!" 
"Superstitious  for  me!  I'm  one  of  the  most 
superstitious  men  alive — under  some  definitions. 
If  anybody  thinks  oftener  than  I  do  of  the  myriad 
unknown  forces  at  work  around  us,  it's  about  time 
for  his  friends  to  shut  him  up,  that's  all!" 

"  You  wouldn't  have  applied  that  definition  to 
anybody  but  yourself,"  said  John,  beginning  a 
sardonic  little  laugh  which  his  sadness  smothered 
at  its  first  breath.  "  You  think  that  being  super- 
stitious would  add  force,  by  contrast,  to  your  unor- 
thodoxy:  but  all  the  same  you're  not  superstitious. 
Thinking  about  what's  beyond  us  isn't  superstition: 
it's  believing  about  it,  as  you've  often  said  your- 
self ;  and  I'm  going  to  think  all  I  want  to.  But  it 


De  Profundis.  245 

tires  me  even  to  think.  Couldn't  a  fellow  just  go 
off  quietly  and  die?" 

"  How  about  those  children  chattering  on  the 
back  seat,"  asked  Calmire,  "and  those  in  the 
wagonette  behind?" 

"Oh,  there's  no  decent  way  out  of  it  all,"  ex- 
claimed John  mournfully;  "  no  way  out!  I've  just 
got  to  stick  it  through:"  In  a  moment,  he  added: 
;' That's  just  what  I  hate  most  of  all  about  it — 
the  cold  fact  which  I  can't  help  realizing  from  the 
experiences  of  other  men,  that  I  shall  in  a  sense 
'get  over  it.'  Why,  this  misery  is  only  her  due  as 
long  as  I  draw  breath!" 

"  An  "  ejaculated  Calmire,  "  that's  the  damnable 
way  of  looking  at  it  that  we've  inherited  from 
Puritanism  and  the  older  diseases  like  it.  But  you 
know  all  the  same,  John,  that  there's  no  sense  in 
nursing  misery:  enough  of  it  is  inevitable.  The 
only  thing  to  nurse  is  happiness." 

"  And  yet  you  wouldn't  say  that  we  should  for- 
get a  human  being  like  a  dog!" 

"  You  can't  forget  a  dog — a  good  one.  There's 
no  danger  that  you'll  forget  Amelia  in  any  way 
you  ought  not,  even  after  the  sharpness  of  this 
misery  is  past." 

After  a  little  musing,  John  said:  "It's  good  to 
talk  to  you,  Calmire.  But  the  worst  of  it  all  is 
that  I  can't  talk  to  her.  If  I  could  only  go  to  her 
and  tell  her  all  about  it!" 

"  Yes,  that's  the  worst,  old  man,  the  very  worst!" 

After  they  got  to  Fleuvemont,  Calmire,  while 
apparently  leaving  John  to  himself,  took  pains  to 


246  De  Profundis. 

keep  within  a  moment's  reach  of  him.  The  chil- 
dren distributed  themselves  over  the  grounds,  ex- 
cept Genevieve,  who  kept  by  her  father,  or  rather, 
as  Calmire  realized,  her  father  pitifully  kept  near 
her. 

After  dinner,  as  the  brothers  smoked  on  the 
piazza,  John's  talk  was  mostly  monosyllabic,  and 
before  his  cigar  was  finished,  he  said  he  was  tired 
and  would  go  to  bed.  Calmire  took  him  to  a  room 
communicating  with  his  own,  and  as  he  was  about 
to  bid  him  good-night,  remembered  himself  and 
said  : 

"  Shall  I  stay  with  you,  John  ?" 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

So  he  sat,  making  a  tremendous  effort  to  divert 
John's  mind  until  he  was  ready  for  bed.  Then  the 
elder  brother  said: 

"  I  know  you  will  sleep.  There's  at  least  that 
advantage  in  being  a  Calmire.  After  you  go  to 
sleep,  I  shall  read  in  my  room  there,  as  I  often  do, 
for  an  hour  or  two;  and  if  you  wake  before  I  do, 
call  me." 

For  a  moment  John  grasped  his  hand  as  if  it 
were  a  floating  spar,  and  in  a  very  few  moments 
more  was  sleeping  the  deep  recuperative  slumber 
of  exhaustion. 

The  next  morning,  Calmire,  as  he  intended, 
awoke  first,  and  as  soon  as  he  knew  John's  sleep 
was  over,  was  beside  him.  When  John  saw  him, 
he  murmured: 

"  Oh  God,  Calmire,  what  a  life  to  wake  into!  I 
knew  nothing  about  it  yesterday.  And  to  think 


De  Profundis.  247 

that  I  have  got  to  wake  into  it  every  day!  I  dread 
Bleep!" 

Calmire  sat  down  beside  the  bed  and  stroked 
his  brother's  hand. 

"  You  can't  wake  into  exactly  it,  another  day, 
John,  even  if  you  try.  To-day's  facts  will  inter- 
vene, even  if  no  more  than  as  panes  of  glass, 
between  you  and  yesterday;  next  day,  to-mor- 
row's facts  will  be  as  a  few  panes  more;  and  so 
through  the  next  day  and  the  next,  until  by  mere 
accumulation,  they  will  render  the  view  of  yester- 
day dim.  You  can't  help  it,  John.  You  may  even 
think  that  loyalty  requires  you  to  keep  all  the 
misery  clear  and  distinct  before  you,  but  you  can't 
do  it.  Omnipotent  and  beneficent  Nature  is  work- 
ing against  it.  Living  is  changing:  if  you  don't 
change,  you  die." 

"  That  would  suit  me  exactly,"  said  John. 

"But  you  can't  have  it,"  said  Calmire,  "and  as 
you  can't,  every  experience,  every  thought,  every 
breath  takes  from  you  something  old  and  substi- 
tutes something  new.  The  one  fact  that  includes 
all  of  life,  is  change.  Change  you  must,  and  the 
bearings  of  this  misery  must  change  with  you." 

"Yes,  if  a  man  lives." 

"  Well,  you've  got  to.  The  happiness  of  so  many 
others  depends  upon  you." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Calmire  could  say  nothing,  yet  he  found  some- 
thing infinitely  pitiable  in  his  matter-of-fact 
brother,  who  had  always  been  mildly  cynical  re- 
garding all  expression  of  emotion,  now  wishing 
again  and  again  for  love  and  sorrow's  sake,  to  lay 


248  De  Profundis. 

down  the  life  that  had  been  so  undemonstrative 
and  strong. 

After  a  minute  or  two  of  silence,  John  resumed: 
"I'm  glad  of  what  you  said  about  all  life  being 
change.  But  here's  a  queer  change  in  mine:  I  want 
to  go  back  where  she  is." 

"  We  don't  know  where  she  is,  John." 

"Oh  well,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  John, 
half  irritably,  and  then  added  with  a  sad  smile: 
"  I  suspect  that  after  all,  I've  enough  of  the  instincts 
of  a  dog,  to  follow  till  the  last." 

When  they  met  downstairs,  John  said: 

"  I've  thought  it  over  and  put  my  own  mind  in 
command  again.  I'm  not  going." 

"Do  exactly  as  you  feel  when  the  moment 
comes,"  said  Calmire.  "So  far  as  possible,  do 
nothing  and  refrain  from  nothing  that  you'll  regret 
hereafter." 

"All  right,  I  sha'n't  go." 

As  the  brothers  had  provided,  the  grief  of  John 
and  his  children  was  not  made  a  show  of  to  the 
whole  population  of  the  town.  For  the  people's  sake, 
and  because  he  thought  she  would  have  wished 
it  so,  Calmire  had  decided  on  a  memorial  meet- 
ing, and  had  told  Courtenay  that,  though  he  would 
not  profane  their  benefactress's  memory  by  placing 
the  clay  from  which  her  loveliness  had  gone,  for 
them  to  look  upon,  he  would  still  like  Courtenay 
to  read  before  them  as  much  of  the  venerable  ser- 
vice of  his  church  as  would  be  fitting,  and  to  speak 
whatever  he  might  wish.  He  also  told  the  choir 


De  Profundis.  249 

and  the  men's  singing  society  to  do  their  own  will 
about  music. 

The  people  gathered  to  pay  their  last  tribute 
of  gratitude  in  and  about  the  library  hall  where 
Amelia  had  done  so  much  for  them,  and  it  was 
all  very  beautiful  with  the  afternoon  sunlight 
slanting  through  the  windows.  When  Courtenay 
tried  to  talk  to  them  of  their  sweet  benefactress, 
he  found  it  hard  to  begin,  and  when  he  said: 
"  The  mothers  here  know  best  what  she  was," 
he  could  not  go  on  for  the  sobs  among  the  people. 
He  saw  some  of  the  men  crying,  and  then  he 
simply  broke  down  and  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands  over  the  reading-desk.  When  after  a  minute 
he  raised  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  falter  on,  he  met 
the  eyes  of  Nina  Wahring,  who  sat  with  Calmire 
in  one  of  the  front  seats.  Tears  were  rolling  down 
her  cheeks,  but  her  face  was  firm  as  marble,  and  in 
it  was  a  strange  gentle  sternness  and  resolution, 
which  came  to  him  through  her  eyes.  It  was  the 
manhood  women  give  great  sons.  And  she  gave 
it  to  him,  and  afterward  his  voice  was  firm,  and 
his  words  calm  and  wise,  and  he  talked  to  the 
people  with  such  strength  and  fitness  and  feeling 
that  the  dullest  of  them  always  remembered  that 
hour,  and  referred  back  to  it  many  a  repression  of 
brutal  impulse,  and  many  a  leading  to  gentleness 
and  charity. 

Calmire,  feeling  that  funeral  pageants  are  but 
survivals  of  barbarism,  took  upon  himself  to  per- 
form simply  the  sad  offices  which  he  had  spared 
his  brother.  Amelia's  sister  was  ill,  and  Calmire 
welcomed  an  intimation  from  her  that  an  emer- 


250  De  Profundis. 

gency  at  home  was  clamoring  for  her  husband, 
and  sent  him  away.  Nina  he  sent  to  Fleuvemont 
to  the  children,  and  it  was  not  with  reluctance 
that,  at  twilight,  he  found  himself  alone,  save  for 
the  laboring  men,  by  a  grave  on  the  hillside  at 
the  edge  of  a  wood,  where  one  sees  far.  Before 
him  was  a  long  covered  basket  of  the  sweet  white 
withes  of  the  weeping  willow.  Flowers  with  their 
stems  woven  into  its  meshes  covered  the  sides,  and 
the  top  was  heaped  with  them. 

As  Calmire  stood  looking  beyond  what  was  at  his 
feet,  into  the  yellow  afterglow  over  the  far  blue 
hills,  and  upon  the  yellow  gleams  of  the  river  here 
and  there  between  them,  he  felt,  among  many  wide 
and  deep  thoughts,  that  sure  dependence  on  Na- 
ture's courses  which,  under  many  names,  has  been 
sung  through  all  the  ages.  His  lips  almost  uttered 
some  words  that  came  to  him:  "This  order  and 
this  beauty  endure — will  endure  somewhere,  if 
not  here,  longer  than  any  hope  or  dream  of  mine 
can  measure.  What  am  I,  that  I  should  think 
lightly  of  it  if  I  respond  to  it  but  for  a  little  while 
more?  I  feel  it  now,  and  could  not  feel  it  better 
if  I  knew  that  the  emotion  would  last  beyond  all 
the  aeons  I  can  conceive.  I  feel  the  higher  moral 
order  which,  to  me,  it  always  symbolizes.  Joy  that 
I  do  so,  is  the  emotion  to  fill  my  soul  with:  not 
questioning  discontent  lest  I  may  not  do  so  long." 

The  first  earth  fell  softly  on  the  thick  mass  of 
flowers,  and  he  felt: 

"  She  knew  it  too,  and  probably  more  sweetly 
than  I,  for  she  knew  wider  love.  Pelion  and  Ossa 
piled  over  her  coffin,  would  do  nothing  to  shut  out 


De  Profundis.  251 

that  fact."  And  a  smile  of  half-amused  scorn 
turned  his  proud  kind  lips,  as  there  came  up  in 
his  mind  the  old  question:  "Grave,  where  is  thy 
victory  ?" 

Then  came  the  antecedent  question:  "  O  Death, 
where  is  thy  sting?"  His  lips  became  set  and  he 
frowned,  and  said  to  himself :  "  How  long  will  they 
amuse  themselves  with  fictions?  If  one  is  a  man. 
it  does  sting  !  Death  is  death  !  It  does  sting  ! 
Oh,  my  sweet  sister  !" 

And  he  sat  down  on  a  rock  beside  him  and 
rested  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  looked  through 
wet  eyes  long  and  wistfully  into  the  beckoning 
mystery  of  the  twilight. 

He  did  not  notice  footsteps  over  the  cracking 
branches  in  the  woods  behind.  Somebody  came 
down  and  over  the  noiseless  turf,  and  sat  unheard 
beside  him.  In  time  his  emotion  spread  its  waves 
to  the  borders  of  his  strong  will,  and  was  checked. 
As  he  lowered  his  hand,  another  hand  was  laid 
upon  it.  He  turned  and  put  his  arm  around 
Muriel's  neck. 

The  two  sat  thus  without  a  word,  looking  be- 
yond into  the  deepening  sky,  until  the  grave  was 
filled  with  earth,  and  the  sky  with  night 

"It  is  over,"  said  Calmire. 

"And  it  begins,"  said  Muriel. 

"  So  always!"  responded  Calmirei 


CHAPTER   LIX. 

FACING    IT. 

"  LET  us  walk,"  said  Muriel.  "  You  are  going  to 
Fleuvemont?  Tell  the  carriage  to  keep  within 
call." 

"HmP'said  Calmire  to  himself.  "So  you  run 
the  situation  your  way,  do  you,  even  with  me? 
My  poor  boy,  what  you  must  have  had  to  handle, 
to  make  this  grip  spontaneous  !"  But  he  assented, 
and  they  walked  on  together  to  Benstock,  the  sta- 
tion next  below  Calmire,  where  the  track  was 
crossed  by  the  road  which  went  past  Huldah's. 

"How  does  Uncle  John  take  it?"  said  Muriel 
after  a  while — the  first  time  he  had  alluded  to 
John  as  "  Uncle,"  since  he  was  a  boy. 

"Like  a  man,"  answered  Calmire,  "and  what's 
rarer,  like  a  reasoning  man." 

"  He's  another  person  to  whom  I  never  did  jus- 
tice," said  Muriel. 

"  Very  likely.     He's  not  your  style." 

"  No,  but  I've  learned  that  there  are  other  styles 
than  mine.  I'm  so  sorry  for  Uncle  John  !  Is  it 
worthwhile  to  love  any  mortal  thing?  Hadn't  a 
man  better  bury  himself  in  the  verities  that  are 
sure  to  outlast  him  ?" 

"  No;  the  best  in  us  lives  on  things  that  perish 
quickly.  We  may  in  time  be  evolved  beyond 

252 


Facing  It.  253 

that;  but  when  we  are,  down  goes  the  charm  of  sex, 
down  goes  procreation,  down  goes  the  race,  and 
dissolution  takes  the  place  of  evolution.  No,  let's 
take  all  the  life  we  can  get,  pain  and  all.  That's 
living." 

"  Yes.  Pain  fertilizes,  at  least,"  responded  Muriel. 
"  I  see  now  that  life  probably  never  is  what  a 
young  man  has  imagined  it  to  be.  But  I  begin  to 
get  a  dim  glimmer  of  an  idea  that  the  ordinary 
materials  of  happiness  may  not  be  its  essentials,  or 
at  least  may  not  be  essential  to  peace."  After  a 
pause  he  went  on — apparently  finding  it  a  relief  to 
unburden  his  mind  after  so  much  solitude:  "  And 
I've  got  another  new  notion — that  by  a  man  with 
any  claims  to  decency,  even  peace  can't  be  had, 
with  duty  shirked.  I've  often  imagined  myself 
building  happiness  that  did  not  rest  on  duty,  and 
every  time,  after  a  day  or  two,  I've  found  my 
structure  full  of  cracks  that  let  in  the  glare  of 
Hell." 

"  There's  some  of  the  old  Muriel  left  in  you  yet!" 
said  Calmire,  half  thinking  aloud. 

"  It's  queer,  isn't  it,"  continued  Muriel,  "  how 
things  won't  hold  together,  and  how  they  will?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Calmire,  "  it  takes  a  long  while  to 
realize  that  moral  forces  act  under  the  same  laws 
as  physical  ones.  An  engineer  will  look  at  a  plan 
and  say:  'That  looks  well,  but  it  won't  stand,' 
while  at  the  same  time  he's  just  as  apt  as  the  rest 
of  us,  to  build  into  his  own  life  little  weaknesses 
that  will  make  his  happiness  shaky  all  his  days." 

"  A  man   can't   often   avoid    the   consequences,' 
Muriel  assented. 


254  Facing  It. 

"  He  has  some  choice  among  them,  though," 
Calmire  rejoined. 

"Yes,  I've  worked  that  out  too,"  responded  Mu- 
riel, and  continued  unbosoming  himself:  "  The 
choice  between  carrying  a  perfidy  like  a  snake 
in  his  bosorn,  chilling  his  conscience,  and  deaden- 
ing his  comradeship  with  all  honest  things — a 
choice  between  that  and  candidly  owning  his  fault, 
that  he  may  work  with  that  comradeship  restored 
— with  sunlight  and  heat  and  frost  and  air  and 
gravity — he  and  they  all  friends  working  hon- 
estly together  in  the  same  evolution — and,"  he 
added  after  a  moment,  "  it's  better  still  to  get  the 
feeling  that  even  if  he  cannot  grasp  what  he  loves, 
any  more  than  he  can  grasp  the  sunset,  he  has  an 
honest  man's  right  to  love  it  apart,  and  is  better 
for  it." 

"  You've  thought  out  a  good  deal,  for  the  amount 
of  living  you've  done  !"  said  Calmire. 

"  I've  done  an  enormous  amount  of  living  for  my 
years,  and  I've  had  to  think  it  out.  It  was  the  boy 
and  the  woodchuck  !"  and  Muriel  laughed  almost 
like  his  old  self. 

"  Well,"  commented  Calmire,  "  we'd  both  have 
been  dead  if  there  hadn't  been  some  humor  in  us. 
But,  my  boy,  mind  this  thing  well.  Don't  culti- 
vate the  power  of  seeing  the  ludicrous  side  of  seri- 
ous things.  Perhaps  it's  worth  more  to  see  the 
serious  side  of  ludicrous  things,  if  it  doesn't  make 
a  prig  of  one." 

"Why  are  people  without  humor  generally  such 
small  potatoes,  anyhow?"  asked  Muriel. 

"Why,  didn't  you  know   that,  as  far  as  we've 


Facing  It.  255 

got,  a  sense  of  humor  is  among  the  very  latest 
things  evolved  ?  It's  later  than  even  many  of  the 
moral  sentiments." 

"You  don't  say  so  !  Shakspere  knew  a  thing  or 
two!  Would  you  believe  that  during  all  the  hor- 
rible torture  of  the  past  half-year,  I've  sometimes 
had  spasms  of  fun  or  bursts  of  music  come  to  me 
in  the  most  painful  moments?  At  first  I  thought 
that  I  must  be  very  depraved  to  make  them  pos- 
sible; but  by  and  by  I  came  to  regard  them  as 
narcotics." 

"  They're  more  healthful  than  that,"  said  Cal- 
mire.  "  You  wouldn't  have  mistrusted  them  if  you 
hadn't  had  the  vices  of  puritanism  in  your  blood. 
The  first  need  in  trouble  is  to  take  what  comes,  nat- 
urally: trouble  always  tempts  to  self-mortification." 

"  I  wish  that  I'd  realized  all  that  when  I  was 
young,"  said  Muriel. 

"  '  When  you  were  young '  ?  How  long  ago  was 
that?" 

"  Not  a  year,"  said  Muriel,  "  but  you  don't  meas- 
ure experience  by  time,  do  you?  For  my  part,  I 
think  a  fellow  ceases  to  be  young  when  he  has  it 
well  burned  into  him  that  pleasure  may  destroy 
happiness,  and  that  duty's  the  real  thing,  after  all  ! 
— It  has  a  queer  power  to  brace  a  fellow,  and  even 
gives  him  now  and  then  a  gleam  of  something 
like  triumph." 

"Ah,  yes!"  exclaimed  Calmire,  sadly.  "But 
while  I  hate  to  croak,  there's  no  unkindness  in  tell- 
ing you  that  you'll  find  humdrum  daily  life  some- 
thing very  different  from  a  triumphal  procession  of 
good  resolutions.  So  far,  you've  resolved  nobly, 


2  56  Facing  It. 

though — at  least  in  generalities  :  but  what  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"  Proclaim  it  and  stand  the  consequences  !  What 
else  is  there  for  a  man  to  do  ?  I  don't  want  the 
credit  of  being  any  better  than  I  am." 

"  So  you  propose  to  proclaim  your  son  a  bastard, 
and  to  destroy  that  much  of  what  chance  there 
may  be  for  him  and  his  mother  during  the  rest  of 
their  lives  !" 

"  What  chance  is  any  one  of  us  three  entitled 
to  ?"  cried  Muriel,  bitterly. 

"He  is  entitled  to  the  chance  of  the  innocent; 
and  you,  and  Minerva  too,  I  trust,  to  the  chance  of 
the  repentant." 

"  Hm !"  muttered  Muriel.    "  I  suspect  I'm  an  ass !" 

"  Well,  the  ass's  head  faced  the  brave  way,  at 
least,"  laughed  Calmire.  "  But  plainly  the  relief 
of  open  confession  is  denied  you." 

"Well,"  said  Muriel,  "  confession  or  no  confes- 
sion, I've  got  to  take  care  of  the  child  and  its 
mother." 

"Certainly  !"  assented  Calmire.  "  Do  you  mean 
marriage  ?" 

"  No.     Do  you  think  I  ought  to  ?" 

"  You  know  I  never  did — at  least  immediately. 
But  with  the  suicidal  enthusiasm  you  showed  a  mo- 
ment ago,  I  didn't  know  what  you  had  come  to." 

"  I  had  simply  determined  to  take  care  of  them 
and  take  the  consequences.  But  to  make  marriage 
one,  would,  it  seems  to  me,  be  to  desecrate  it.  Its 
only  legitimate  place  is  as  an  antecedent." 

"  You're  right.  But  you're  undertaking  a  hard 
task." 


Facing  It.  257 

"  Yes,  harder  than  it  seemed  before  you  showed 
me  the  need  of  concealment.  And  if  it  were  only 
all  working  !  But  it's  enduring,  that  I  can't  stand. 
Oh  !  can't  there  be  any  way  out  of  it  all  ?"  cried 
the  boy  who  a  moment  before  had  been  exulting  in 
his  resolution  to  stay  in. 

"  Not  for  a  good  while,  if  ever,"  said  Calmire. 
"  The  tangle  is  too  complex  for  me  to  see  any  un- 
ravelment  yet.  There's  nothing  visible  but  pa- 
tience." 

"  If  I  could  only  end  it  all  by  dying  for  them  !" 
murmured  Muriel. 

"Dying!  Any  fool  can  do  that!  To  live  and 
suppress  one's  self,  is  the  thing  that  tests  a  man  !" 

"If  there  were  only  something  to  do  T  cried 
Muriel.  "  But  merely  waiting,  when  one  doesn't 
know  what  one  is  waiting  for,  is  about  as  dead  as 
death." 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  sometimes  the  strongest  and 
wisest  thing  a  man  can  do,"  said  Calmire,  "  though 
sometimes  it's  the  weakest  and  stupidest.  But  wait- 
ing should  not  mean  idleness.  That's  full  of  dry-rot. 
I  thought  of  you  the  other  day  when  I  had  to  get 
a  carpenter  to  make  some  repairs.  We  build  a 
house  to  rest  in,  and  after  a  little  while,  Nature 
has  attacked  it  with  storm,  and  rust,  and  decay, 
and  shrinkage,  and  gravity,  so  that  we've  got  to 
get  up  and  repair  it.  It  is  with  our  bodies  and 
minds  just  as  it  is  with  our  houses:  the  environ- 
ment is  constantly  acting  upon  them,  and  unless 
they  healthily  react,  they're  rotted  out.  Queer 
how  everything  is  a  corollary  of  the  Persistence  of 
Force,  isn't  it  ? — even  the  fact  that  you've  got  to  go 


258  Facing  It. 

to  work  to  keep  yourself  together!  Now  what 

is  to  be  your  first  step?  You'll  attract  attention  if 
you're  all  at  any  one  place  long.  Her  history  will 
be  pried  into,  and  then  you'll  have  to  move  on. 
That  will  at  least  keep  you  active,  though!" 

"Again,  the  curse  of  Cain!  A  wanderer  on  the 
face  of  the  earth!"  exclaimed  Muriel. 

"  Oh,  don't  indulge  in  that  £ort  of  thing.  You've 
done  nothing  as  bad  as  that.  Stick  to  the  subject!" 

Calmire  put  his  arm  in  Muriel's  while  chiding  him. 

"Well,"  said  Muriel,  "possibly  I  can  fix  myself 
somewhere  at  the  centre  of  a  circle,  so  to  speak, 
and  nave  the  others  make  their  moves  on  the  cir- 
cumference, within  reach  of  me.  All  of  which 
opens  the  interesting  question  of  how  much  lying 
I've  got  to  do.  Why,  when  a  fellow  gets  down, 
does  everything  conspire  to  push  him  farther?" 

"  Say  rather,"  commented  Calmire,  "  '  Why,  when 
a  man  runs  counter  to  one  law,  does  he  find  himself 
at  war  with  the  whole  system  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,  the  system  seems  to  hang  together  pretty 
well,"  said  Muriel.  "You  pull  a  thread  in  any 
direction,  and  the  first  you  know,  the  strain  has  got 
around  to  your  own  heart-strings.  But  Heavens  and 
Earth!  I  can't  go  on  lying  and  wandering  all  my 
life.  What  can  I  do  ?  Anything  I  can  do  is  absurd." 

"Yes,"  responded  Calmire,  "that's  the  worst  of 
the  worst  situations.  The  only  way  is  to  plan  as 
little  as  possible.  First  try  what  seems  least  ab- 
surd, and  then  follow  the  indications." 

"  Uncle  Grand,  the  thought  has  crossed  my  mind 
a  thousand  times  that  it's  mere  mawkishness  not 
i  j  reduce  this  to  a  simple  question  of  money,  pay 


Facing  It.  259 

up,  and  clear  it  off." 

"Well,"  asked  Calmire,  "what  do  you  think  of 
that  thought?" 

"That  it's  the  thought  of  a  brute,"  Muriel  re- 
sponded promptly. 

"Anything  else?"  queried  Calmire. 

"Yes.  That  it's  the  thought  of  a  fool.  The 
thing  wouldn't  stay  cleared  off." 

"It  would  if  you  were  brute  enough." 

"  But  I'm  not." 

"That's  just  where  the  trouble  comes  in,"  ob- 
served Calmire.  "  What  did  I  write  you  last 
Fall  about  men's  punishments  not  being  alike? 
Make  the  best  of  yours,  and  leave  the  rest  to  the 
infinite  possibilities  of  Nature.  Try  to  ignore  it," 
and  his  voice  fell  to  a  tone  that  had  something 
awful  in  it,  "  and  no  matter  what  your  external  life 
may  be,  it  will  crush  the  soul  out  of  you  as  sure  as 
gravitation!" 

Muriel  pondered  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 
"  Whatever  externals  may  be,  there  will  always — 
always — always  be  something  abnormal  in  my 
life.  Oh,  the  misery  of  it — the  unending  misery 
of  it!" 

Calmire's  face  was  a  strange  study.  His  wider 
experience  made  him  realize  ramifications  to  the 
wretchedness,  that  the  boy's  imagination  had  not 
yet  reached;  but  yet  he  felt  that  skepticism  re- 
garding any  definite  expectations  for  the  future, 
which  becomes  habitual  to  men  who  have  seen 
and  thought  much.  This  and  a  certain  amused  pity 
for  the  wholesale  way  in  which  the  young  expect 
either  sorrow  or  joy,  united  to  interfuse  a  faint 
gleam  of  a  smile  among  the  deep  shadows  of  his 


260  Facing  It. 

grand  features.   After  a  minute, he  said,  very  slowly: 
"  Muriel,  there  are  very  few  lives — very  few,  if 
any — that    reach    their   climax    without   something 
abnormal    and    irreparable    in    them.       Don't    get 
demoralized   because   you  can  never  be  perfectly 
happy.     Do  you  know  anybody  who  is?" 
Muriel  reflected  a  little,  and  then  answered: 
"  Uncle    Grand,   under   ordinary   circumstances 
you're  the  happiest  man  I  know." 

"The    nearest   to  happy,  you    mean.     Well,  do 
you  want  to  know  the  secret  ?" 

"Always  behaving  yourself,  I  suppose." 
"  No;  that  would  be  but  half  of  it,  even  if  it  were 
true — at  least  as  your  phrase  is  ordinarily  under- 
stood. Always  occupying  myself  does  much  of  it — 
always,  on  being  attacked  by  painful  thoughts, 
finding  something  to  do,  and  so  leaving  no  room 
in  the  mind  for  irremediable  trouble." 

"And  yet,"  remonstrated  Muriel,  "you've  told 
me  that  we  ought  to  get  growth  from  our  troubles." 
"Certainly,  and  perhaps  the  most  important 
growth  we  can  get,  is  just  that  power  of  ignor- 
ing them.  Only  the  remediable  ones  should  be 
thought  about.  Enough  means  of  growth  will 
be  found  in  them :  in  fact,  they  give  us  the  very 
'something  to  do'  that  we  need." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  think  of  Aunt  Amelia?" 
"  Yes — that  we  had  her  :  not  that  we've  lost  her." 
"  But  my  one  fixed  trouble  ?"  urged  Muriel.     "  It 
seems  irremediable  :  shall  I  give  it  no  thought?" 

"  None  to  its  irremediable  features.     You'll  find 
enough  remediable  ones  ;  and  they'll  pound  your 
conscience  hard  enough,  too,  to  keep  it  tender." 
"Well,   that  seems  rational,"  Muriel  admitted. 


Facing  It.  261 

"  But  you  told  me  that  work  is  only  part  of  your 
secret  of  happiness.  What's  the  rest?" 

"  Constantly  realizing  one  little  truth — that  it's 
absurd  to  expect  perfect  happiness  without  perfect 
evolution — that  for  us,  the  conditions  of  perfect 
happiness  don't  exist.  Plainly,  then,  the  moral 
is,  to  make  the  best  of  what  happiness  the  con- 
ditions permit.  No  matter  what  Fate  sends,  I 
take  all  the  happiness  I  can  get  (Of  course  selfishly 
trying  not  to  forget  that  the  most  is  to  be  got 
from  giving  it),  and  in  spite  of  Fate's  hard  blows 
to  us  both,  I  do  mightily  enjoy  my  life." 

He  stretched  out  his  great  arms  and  expanded 
his  deep  chest  and  looked  over  to  Muriel  with  a 
smile  that  made  him  think  of  Browning's  Hercules 
— so  full  was  it  of  the  joy  and  pity  of  the  gods. 

'•'•'•Fate's  hard  blows'  is  a  kind  way  of  putting 
it — at  least  my  part  of  it,"  said  Muriel.  "  No!  I've 
spoiled  my  life  myself;  and  after  all,  there's  some 
grim  comfort  in  not  being  anybody-else's  victim." 

"That's  honest!"  exclaimed  Calmire.  "But  this 
thing  need  not  spoil  your  life.  You've  told  me 
that  you're  even  now  able  to  lose  yourself  in  what 
interests  you.  Lose  yourself,  then." 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

"  Anything  that  adds  to  the  aggregate  happi- 
ness." 

"  I  may  as  well  amuse  myself,  then.  Thank  you  : 
I've  lost  all  taste  for  that." 

"Then  amuse  others,  if  you  will.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  see  you  become  an  intelligent  being 
wholly  devoted  to  selfish  pleasure ;  for  such  a 
creature  has  always  seemed  to  me  the  saddest 


262  Facing  It. 

incongruity  in  nature,  and  one  of  the  most  dis- 
gusting :  I  hardly  know  which  is  the  worse — 
the  pettiness  of  the  object,  or  the  stupidity  of 
the  way  of  seeking  it.  But  it's  all  right  if  you 
add  to  the  pleasure  of  others  at  the  same  time. 
Why,  even  yachtsmen  and  turfmen  who  advance 
their  arts  are  useful;  and  so,"  he  said  with  a  smile, 
"  is  a  cornet-player  who  delights  many  people." 

"  But  why  do  you  talk  about  playthings,  Uncle 
Grand  ?  I'm  past  them." 

"  Now  stop  right  there,  Muriel  !  I  never  knew  a 
really  big  man  who  had  no  playthings,  even  if  they 
were  live  soldiers." 

"  Probably  I've  got  to  put  up  with  the  cheap  in- 
spirations of  ambition  anyhow,"  Muriel  muttered: 
"  But  lacking  love,  I  lack  even  ambition." 

"  But  don't  despise  ambition,  Muriel,"  urged  Cal- 
mire.  "Surely  there  are  noble  ones.  And  whether 
you  succeed  or  not,  the  work  is  the  main  thing  for 
you.  Can't  you  lay  out  something  definite?" 

"The  country's  greatest  need  is  in  politics,"  an- 
swered Muriel.  "But  I  can't  make  myself  an 
object  of  public  investigation  just  now  :  so  I've 
simply  closed  that  career  for  myself  !"  Muriel  said 
it  bitterly,  but  added  with  a  sneer:  "  I  never  had 
much  taste  for  it,  though.  I  don't  like  to  shake 
hands  that  are  seldom  washed,  and  that's  politics." 

"That  depends,"  said  Calmire,  "  upon  whether 
you  take  the  cheap  notion  of  'a  career.'  It  might 
be  hard  for  you  to  get  office,  but  lots  of  men  have 
done  the  greatest  good  in  politics — in  the  art  as 
well  as  in  the  science,  without  holding  office." 


CHAPTER   LX. 

WHERE    ALL    ROADS    MEET. 

THEY  stepped  upon  the  platform  at  Benstock. 
Calmire  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  :  "  We've 
over  half  an  hour:  let's  drive  to  the  next  station." 
He  told  his  men  to  throw  back  the  top  of  the 
landau.  Despite  Calmire's  attitude  regarding 
mourning  conventions,  he  had  sent  to  New  York 
for  a  big  close  carriage  that  he  had  never  before 
used  in  the  country,  in  which,  alone,  to  follow  his 
sister's  body  to  the  grave. 

After  they  were  seated,  Muriel  resumed:  "  Do 
you  know,  I've  sometimes  really  thought  I'd  like  to 
preach  ? — for  the  sake  of  teaching  some  other  poor 
devils  what  has  cost  me  so  much  to  learn." 

"  Certainly  !"  responded  Calmire.  "  Every  young- 
ster with  any  seriousness  in  him  gets  taken  that 
way  sometime." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Muriel,  "at  least  I've  made 
up  my  mind  that  I'm  not  going  to  pitch  into  the 
churches  any  more." 

"You've  found  at  last  that  they  have  their  uses, 
have  you  ? — even  outside  of  charity  and  police  ?" 

"  Yes.  Why,  will  you  believe  that  I've  wandered 
into  them  for  help  more  than  once  of  late  ?" 

"Of  course!  Of  course!  So  did  I  in  my  early 
time  of  trouble.  A  young  man  has  all  sorts  of 
impulses  then — grasps  at  every  straw.  But  did 
you  get  any  comfort?" 

263 


264  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

"  Hardly,  except  in  occasionally  having  the 
cockles  of  my  heart  warmed  by  a  little  sense  of 
human  sympathy.  But  I  did  get  another  thing," 
he  added  after  a  moment, — "a  realization  that  a 
good  deal  of  what  I've  struggled  to  through  all 
this  sweat  and  fire,  the  churches  have  been  quietly 
preaching  all  the  while." 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal  of  it,"  said  Calmire.  "  I  tried  to 
get  that  into  your  head  long  ago,  but  of  course  you 
wouldn't  take  it.  The  sort  of  man  who  needs  it  has 
to  learn  it  for  himself — as  he  has  most  things.  But 
after  a  while,  you'll  begin  to  criticise  the  churches 
again.  When  that  time  comes,  don't  forget  what 
seems  very  simple,  but  what,  like  many  other  sim- 
ple things,  it  will  take  you  a  good  while  to  really 
feel — I  mean  that,  speaking  broadly,  to  do  any 
good,  the  churches  have  got  to  take  pretty  much 
the  lines  they  do.  The  idea  of  giving  most  people 
the  direct  truth  is  simply  comical.  Suppose  that 
instead  of  giving  them  the  cosmogony  of  Moses, 
you  were  to  try  to  make  them- understand  evolu- 
tion ;  suppose  that  instead  of  the  power  and  wis- 
dom of  God,  you  were  to  try  to  make  them 
understand  the  persistence  of  force  and  the  uni- 
versality of  law ;  suppose  that  for  the  jealous 
God  who  visits  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children,  you  try  to  expound  to  them  the  law  of 
heredity;  suppose  that  instead  of  the  hope  of 
Heaven  and  the  dread  of  Hell,  you  tried  to  sub- 
stitute the  Utilitarian  basis  of  morals  ;  suppose 
that  for  the  mysteries  of  religion  (and  there's 
great  stimulus  to  all  our  higher  faculties  in  the 
contemplation  of  mystery)  you  try  to  give  them  a 


Where  All  Roads  Meet.  265 

grip  on  the  relativity  of  our  knowledge — on  the 
fact  that  both  the  external  universe  and  the  uni- 
verse of  consciousness  too,  float  on  an  Infinite 
Mystery." 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel.  "  I've  thought  that  all  out. 
I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  about  the  symbols  any 
more:  the  moralities  are  about  the  same." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Calmire,  "  fruits  from  the  same 
experience.  It's  in  the  sanctions,  that  the  difference 
comes :  the  Hell  you've  been  through,  couldn't 
be  understood  by  a  fire-and-brimstone  congrega- 
tion." 

"  No,  nor  my  Heaven  either,  if  it  were  attain- 
able. And  yet,"  he  mused  after  a  moment,  "I 
don't  know  that  I  know  much  more  about  my 
Heaven  than  they  do.  When  a  fellow's  in  such  a 
fix  as  I  am,  a  purely  philosophical  Heaven  won't 
fill  the  bill  :  when  he's  alone  as  I've  been,  all  his 
ancestors  cry  out  in  his  heart  for  God,  and  when 
his  life  is  broken  as  mine  is,  they  all  cry  out  for 
another  life." 

"Well,"  said  Calmire,  "there's  no  necessity  of 
your  altogether  drowning  the  ancestral  voices : 
you  can't  escape  a  great  deal  that  they  assert  re- 
garding God  ;  and  as  to  immortality,  you've  no 
more  right  to  deny  it  than  they  to  assert  it." 

"  I  know  that's  the  accepted  lingo,"  responded 
Muriel,  "but  I  will  speculate,  speculate,  speculate: 
and  if  a  fellow  keeps  speculating  after  he's  broken 
with  Christianity  and  all  that,  what's  he  going  to 
do  when  he's  all  alone  in  the  dark  ?" 

"He'd  better  stop  speculating  and  mind  his 
business  and  keep  out  of  the  dark.  Thinking  is 


266  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

all  very  well  as  far  as  it  goes  :  when  a  man  first 
gets  into  deep  trouble  he's  got  to  think  (unless  he 
lets  somebody  else  do  it  for  him),  until  he  has  a 
lasting  sense — direct,  or  symbolic  like  Paul's,  of  at 
least  four  things — the  enduring  Verity  behind  all 
the  shifting  phenomena  we  call  life,  the  inscruta- 
bility of  consciousness,  the  sanctions  of  morality  in 
the  very  structure  of  the  universe,  and  the  hopeful- 
ness of  evolution.  He'll  be  more  comfortable,  too, 
if  he  will  realize  the  relatively  limited  pain  in  disso- 
lution— cosmic  as  well  as  personal,  I  mean  :  that's 
a  big  subject  that  hasn't  been  gone  into  much.  But 
all  the  same,  when  those  foundations  are  once  in  good 
and  firm,  it's  best  to  cover  them  up  and  leave  them 
alone,  and  busy  one's  self  in  the  daylight.  Dig- 
ging among  the  fundamental  verities,  is  like  mining 
— work  for  short  hours.  It's  not  as  healthy  as  any 
sort  of  'active  work,'  as  they  call  it, — politics,  hy- 
giene, charity,  education,  or  even  business  routine, 
if  a  man  is  condemned  to  it.  Why  the  churches 
themselves,  as  they  improve,  pay  less  attention  to 
that  sort  of  questions — less  to  dogma  and  more  to 
morals,  less  to  'doctrine*  and  more  to  practice. 
Under  our  eyes  they  are  differentiating  from  insti- 
tutions given  wholly  to  '  services  '  and  preaching, 
into  clubs  where  people  have  good  times  and  dis- 
seminategood  times amongtheless fortunate.  Why, 
sects  which  when  I  was  a  youngster  thought  that 
cards,  dancing,  billiard-playing,  and  the  theatre  all 
came  from  the  devil,  now  have  annexes  to  their 
churches  where  all  those  things  are  used,  and  used  ad 
majorem  dei  gloriam,  too.  On  the  other  hand,  social 
clubs  are  changing  in  the  direction  of  the  churches 


Where  All  Roads  Meet.  267 

— they  enforce  many  moralities — they'd  expel  a  man 
now  for  publicly  making  such  bets  as  they  once 
registered  in  their  books  ;  they  are  getting  libraries, 
and  even  annexing  lecture-halls  where  they  discuss 
many  themes  that  the  pulpit  now  does.  Apparently 
both  religious  and  social  organizations  are  approach- 
ing some  plane  where  they  will  hardly  be  distin- 
guishable from  each  other — where  religion  will  be 
what  its  most  intelligent  supporters  have  all  along 
wanted  it  to  be — a  part  of  common  life,  and  where 
common  life  will  be  imbued  with  religion." 

"And  then,"  exclaimed  Muriel,  "the  churches 
will  be  out  of  the  way!" 

"  That's  hard  to  prognosticate,"  Calmire  answered. 
"  Yet  they  don't  even  now  stand  out  as  the  mediaeval 
cathedrals  do:  the  modern  churches  are  already 
more  on  the  general  level,  partly  because  the  level 
has  risen.  The  universities  are  looming  up  with 
wonderful  rapidity.  But  try  to  realize  what  the 
religions  have  done  to  raise  the  whole.  And,  as  I 
intimated  before,  the  faster  they  raise  it,  the  less 
they  occupy  themselves  with  speculation  on  what 
is  beyond  our  knowledge.  That  always  was  an  ele- 
ment of  weakness  in  them,  and  is  in  anybody.  It 
won't  do  to  get  so  engrossed  in  the  questions  un- 
derlying life,  as  to  lessen  one's  usefulness  in  life 
itself :  yow  know  that  nine  tenths  of  the  half- 
philosophical  half-religious  speculation  is  the  work 
of  weaklings  and  cranks." 

"Why,  Uncle  Grand,  I  took  it  for  gfanted  that 
you  held  philosophy  to  be  the  highest  possible 
pursuit:  then  it  ought  to  be  the  healthiest." 

"So  it  is,  if  it  heeds  the  very  principle  I've  men- 


268  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

tioned,  and  busies  itself  with  real  things — with 
the  relations  between  the  laws  actually  discovered 
in  matter  and  motion  and  life  and  mind  and  morals 
and  society.  A  man  working  on  actual  phenomena 
is  constantly  getting  his  Antaean  strength:  but  if 
he  keeps  too  long  away  from  mother  Earth,  in  the 
mists  of  old-fashioned  speculation,  his  power  is 
going  to  ooze  out  fast." 

"  But,"  objected  Muriel,  "  there  have  been  some 
very  strong  men  given  to  that  sort  of  speculation." 

"  Yes,  men  strong  enough  to  be  strong  in  spite  of 
it,  and  few  of  them  for  all  their  days:  the  best  phi- 
losophers, from  Aristotle  through  Descartes  down, 
have  devoted  a  large  part  of  their  time  to  verifica- 
tion too — to  science.  And  what  steadied  the  best 
of  those  not  given  to  science,  was  their  big  human 
interest:  if  Socrates  (who,  by  the  way,  although 
one  of  the  world's  most  precious  moral  inspira- 
tions, is  hardly  to  be  called  a  philosopher,  though 
he  may  have  been  something  better) — if  he  hadn't 
been  going  around  boring  all  sorts  of  people  with 
his  questions,  and  if  Christ  hadn't  been  going 
around  blessing  them  with  his  sympathy,  I  doubt 
it  we'd  have  heard  much  of  either  Socrates  or 
Christ." 

"  But,  Uncle  Grand,  why  won't  you  call  Socrates 
a  philosopher?  Surely  he  was  a  lover  of  wisdom." 

"  Bless  you,  boy,  haven't  you  outgrown  etymolo- 
gies yet  ?  Don't  you  see  words  getting  past  them 
every  day,  as  knowledge  changes;  and  only  the 
ignorant  holding  on  to  the  old  meanings?  No- 
body who  reflects  what  philosophy  means  to-day, 
would  think  of  calling  Socrates  or  Emerson  a  phi- 


Where  All  Roads  Meet.  269 

losopher,  though  they  were  two  of  the  greatest,  and 
most  useful  men  that  ever  lived." 

"Well,  how  did  the  meanings  get  so  mixed?" 
asked  Muriel. 

"  Because  they  were  so  vague.  Before  Evolution 
was  discovered,  Philosophy  was  largely  a  jumble  of 
guesswork:  the  old  'systems  '  did  not  confine  them- 
selves to  laws  actually  found  in  Nature,  as  Evolu- 
tion is,  but  were  to  a  great  extent  mere  structures 
of  words  for  pseud-ideas.  They  were  the  parents, 
too,  of  half  the  dogmas  of  the  churches." 

"Yes,"  responded  Muriel,  "I've  often  wondered 
why  most  of  the  teachers  of  philosophy  are  par- 
sons." 

"  That's  plain  enough.  Philosophy  is,  at  bottom, 
the  attempt  to  explain  man's  relations  to  the  uni- 
verse, and  to  deduce  the  correct  principles  of  con- 
ducting them — of  conduct,  in  short, — Phi  Beta 
Kappa  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Theology 
professes  to  do  the  same  thing:  and  so  philosophy 
has  got  all  mixed  up  with  theology,  as  you  find 
them  in  the  old-fashioned  schools  even  to-day.  But 
after  all,  the  guesswork  philosophy  has  been  only  a 
male  parent  of  dogmas:  unregulated  emotions  were 
the  female  ones." 

"And  that's  why  the  women  run  the  churches," 
Muriel  commented. 

"Of  course — so  far  as  they  do!  And  for  the 
same  reason,  the  studious  women  are  more  apt  to 
take  to  the  alleged  philosophies  than  to  the  real 
one  :  they  give  more  play  for  fancy  and  the  cheaper 
sort  of  feeling,  and  call  for  less  real  thinking- 
power.  But  don't  let  all  that  shut  your  eyes  to  the 


2/0  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

good  side  of  the  women,  or  the  churches  either. 
The  churches  seek  what  philosophy  seeks,  and 
they're  better  adapted  than  philosophy  to  the 
average  needs." 

"Well,  there's  something  in  all  that,"  Muriel  ad- 
mitted. Then  after  a  little  silence  he  added: 
"But  after  all  you've  said  about  wasting  time  in 
speculation,  you  know  that  you  let  your  own  mind 
run  a  great  deal  on  the  same  subjects  that  the  early 
philosophers  did." 

"Yes:  but,  I  hope,  only  in  the  modern  way;  and 
not  to  an  abnormal  degree  unless  under  abnormal 
circumstances.  Under  normal  circumstances,  one 
ought  to  take  those  subjects  only  subconsciously, 
as  one  does  light  and  gravitation.  I  don't  mean 
to  say,  though,  that  it's  not  well  at  times  for  one's 
consciousness  to  be  as  full  as  it  can  of  the  Infinite 
Mystery  on  whose  surface  we  live.  But  we  don't 
get  the  most  and  best  of  such  moments  by  drop- 
ping our  work  for  the  sake  of  them." 

"  That's  so:  we  don't !  But  in  such  moments, 
we  do  want  more,  more,  both  in  space  and  time." 

"You  haven't  yet  known  the  best  moments,"  re- 
sponded Calmire,  "  if  you  say  that  in  them  we  most 
long  for  more  :  for  they  are  the  nearest  to  complete 
and  satisfying.  In  them,  we  feel  that  we  are  part 
of  the  All.  It  is  in  moments  a  degree  lower,  that 
the  longing  is  strongest;  and  the  same  rule  holds 
with  that  lofty  longing  as  with  our  very  lowest- 
temperate  indulgence  is  wisest." 

"  But  you  do  sometimes  long  for  immortality, 
then!"  exclaimed  Muriel,  partly  with  the  eagerness 
of  one  who  has  gained  a  point  in  argument, 


Where  A II  Roads  Meet.  2  7 1 

"  I  certainly  do  long  for  wider  life,"  Calmire  an- 
swered. "Did  you  ever  turn  over  in  your  mind 
the  inevitable  narrowness  of  anyone  man's?  Why, 
many  a  savage  has  experiences  that  you  or  I  would 
be  glad  of.  Probably  neither  of  us  will  ever  know 
how  it  feels  to  kill  a  lion  as  he  is  springing  on  a 
child.  What  does  a  man  feel  that  a  woman  does? 
I  doubt  if  he  ever  touches  an  ecstasy  at  all  like  that 
of  a  mother  nursing  her  babe,  though  he  may  have 
some  others  as  strong.  No  two  people  ever  saw 
the  same  rainbow,  no  matter  how  close  their  heads 
were  together,  or  the  same  thing,  for  that  matter: 
for  the  identical  vibrations  never  entered  more  than 
one  eye — each  sees  his  own  little  aspect — especially 
of  general  truths:  each  philosophy  or  religion  has 
its  own  view  of  the  same  truths  the  others  look  at, 
and  all  philosophies  and  religions  are  vastly  nearer 
alike  than  is  generally  realized.  But  as  to  our 

narrowness:  think  of  the  future  in  the  light  of  the 
past  thirty  years:  I  would  give  a  year  of  my  life  now, 
for  a  day  five  hundred  years  hence!  Or  take  what 
the  inhabitant  of  that  planet  nearest  the  sun  must 
experience — what  the  inhabitant  of  the  planet  most 
remote  (though  probably  we  shouldn't  want  much 
of  that) — what  the  myriad  creatures  in  the  myriad 
systems  experience,  have  experienced,  are  to  ex- 
perience !  Yes,  I  do  want  an  hour  under  the 
arched  glory  in  Saturn's  sky,  and  I  would  like  to 
know  by  what  name  the  inhabitants  of  Uranus  call 
the  planet  we  live  on.  I  want  to  know  it  all — to 
feel  it  all !" 

"  A  very  modern  sort  of  a  Heaven,  you  want !" 
commented  Muriel,  "but  I  don't  see  why  it  can'f 
hold  its  own  with  the  earlier  varieties/' 


272  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

"  Hold  its  own  with  the  earlier  varieties  !  Why, 
as  far  as  mere  imagery  is  concerned,  the  earlier 
people  had  not  the  knowledge  to  make  much  of 
a  heaven.  We  know  that  there  are  a  myriad 
heavens  where  'there  is  no  night' — in  each  of 
which  a  myriad  suns  revolve  so  clustered  that  to 
our  paltry  vision  they  seem  but  a  single  star.  On 
the  other  hand,  were  our  vision  fine  enough,  it 
would  see  the  molecules  in  a  partial  vacuum  no 
bigger  than  your  thumb,  performing  a  dance  more 
wondrous  than  that  of  all  those  suns.  One  wants 
to  know  it  all  :  but  the  very  idea  of  'all  '  becomes 
more  absurd  with  each  step  outward,  and  the  circle 
of  what  was  known  before  shrinks  to  nothing. 
The  telescope  comes  :  the  heaven  of  our  ancestors 
dwindles  like  a  dying  flame;  the  spectroscope 
comes,  and  of  its  heaven,  the  telescope's  is  but  a 
little  fraction.  The  microscope  comes,  and  man 

marvels  at  a  second  universe:  along  come  the 
electric  spark  and  the  exhausted  tube,  and  the  uni- 
verse of  the  microscope  becomes  a  trifle." 

They  were  silent  for  a  while,  contemplating  the 
sky,  which  was  exceptionally  beautiful  that  night, 
when  Muriel  said  : 

"But  don't  you  th/nk  that,  independently  of  the 
question  of  a  future  life,  we  may  sometime  estab- 
lish communication  up  there?" 

"  It's  not  inconceivable,  even  now,"  answered 
Calmire,  "// hypnotic  susceptibility  is  telepathic. 
Mind,  I  say  if- — if  you  can  read  a  mind  a  hemi- 
sphere off,  why  not  read  one  an  orbit  off?" 

"  But  we  haven't  the  same  language." 

"That  makes  little  difference.     Hypnotic  read- 


Where  All  Roads  Meet.  273 

ing  is  as  much  by  visions — sights  and  sounds  in 
general,  as  by  words.  The  sensitive  often  simply 
experiences  fragments  of  what  the  person  being 
read  has  experienced.  Why,  then,  shouldn't  we 
see  or  hear  what  the  inhabitants  of  Mars,  or  even 
of  the  dark  companion  of  Algol,  see  and  hear?" 

"  Provided  they  see  and  hear  at  all,"  commented 
Muriel. 

"Well!"  Calmire  answered,  "if  there  are  any 
such  folk,  they  are  probably  subjected  to  some 
such  vibrations  as  have  evolved  our  sense  of  hear- 
ing, and  unquestionably  to  influences  akin  to  those 
which  have  evolved  our  senses  of  sight  and  feel- 
ing. Of  course  their  phenomena  must  differ 
widely  from  ours,  but  probably  many  of  them 
would  be  within  the  range  of  our  appreciation, 

"  It  is  hard,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  "  to  feel 
that  our  faculties  only  touch  such  a  little  film  of 
the  Infinite;  and  it  makes  it  harder,  to  realize  that 
in  all  probability  other  sets  of  faculties  no  better, 
are  touching  other  films  which  our  minds  might 
be  able  to  touch  too.  Our  apparatus  couldn't 
stand  the  other  fellows'  conditions,  though.  That 
needn't  interfere  with  mutual  mind-reading,  how- 
ever," he  added,  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  that's  very  consoling,"  said  Muriel,  laugh- 
ing too.  "And  it  seems  rather  simpler  than  the 
immortality  method." 

"  Not  so  protracted,  however,"  Calmire  re- 
sponded. "We'd  have  to  stop  reading  minds  when 
we  stopped  other  things,  and  at  best,  reading  finite 
minds  is  not  quite  what  we're  after." 


274  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel.  "  If  we're  going  to  dream, 
we  may  as  well  dream  something  bigger," 

"  But  that  mind-reading  isn't  exactly  a  dream," 
Calmire  objected.  "  There's  something  to  start 
on,  and  it  hardly  seems  to  contradict  anything 
now.  But  for  that  matter,  the  dream  of  immor- 
tality itself  doesn't  necessarily  contradict  anything. 
There's  no  ^/^-contradiction  about  it — like  paral- 
lel lines  meeting,  or  things  equaling  the  same  thing 
and  not  equaling  each  other.  Neither  is  there  any 
evidence  against  it:  for  there's  no  evidence  in.  But 
it's  different  from  the  other  great  conceptions- 
evolution,  the  Universe  beyond  revealed  Nature, 
the  inscrutability  of  consciousness,  and  the  uni- 
versality of  the  moral  Law.  They're  facts :  the 
evidence  for  them  is  in,  while  immortality  is  but  a 
speculation.  Yet  while  I  should  be  glad  of  some- 
thing better  than  our  present  evolution,  and  can't 
think  much  of  any  soul  that  wouldn't,  nevertheless 
as  our  share  in  the  present  evolution  is  the  best 
we're  sure  of,  I  think  still  less  of  any  sou!  not 
ready  to  take  its  share  cheerfully  and  make  the 
best  of  it.  A  man  hasn't  learned  anything  until 
he  has  learned  that.  But  Lord,  how  long-winded 
I'm  getting  \  But  we've  got  back  to  business  now, 
and  I  really  think  you  need  a  word  or  two  more 
about  these  speculations — if  you  can  put  up  with 
me?" 

"If  I  can  put  up  with  you!"  His  tone  was  suf- 
ficient, and  Calmire  went  on: 

"  Well !  So  far  as  any  speculation  tends  to  inter- 
fere with  a  man's  hearty  interest  in  his  life  here,  he'd 
better,  as  a  rule,  leave  it  alone,  except  as  implica- 


Where  A II  Roads  Meet.  2  7  5 

tions  from  positive  knowledge  Torce  it  upon  him.  I 
see  evidence  written  all  over  life  and  history  that 
if  Nature  means  anything,  It  means  (and  mark 
this  well,  there's  nothing  in  practical  philosophy 
more  important)  that  this  life  is  best  treated 
as  sufficient  unto  itself.  There  never  was  an 
honest,  invigorating  duty  predicated  on  the  hy- 
pothesis of  another  life,  that  does  not  stand  out 
boldly  as  a  duty  if  this  life  is  all;  while  upon  the 
assumption  of  another  life,  there  have  been  more 
swindles  and  enervations  imposed  on  men — and 
especially  on  women — than  upon  any  other  as- 
sumption ever  devised.  For  my  part" — he  paused 
a  moment,  and  then  continued  in  a  lower  voice 
with  a  strange  vibration  in  it :  i(  if  I,  for  one,  were  to 
play  with  the  emotional  aspects  of  the  immortality 
question  as  some  people  do,  my  intellect  would 
simply  go — where  I  have  found  a  large  proportion 
of  the  intellects  I  happen  to  have  come  across,  that 
do  play  with  those  aspects.  But,"  he  added  in 
his  usual  cheery  way,  "  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
dogma  of  the  non-committal  attitude.  Some  day, 
something — perhaps  a  trifling  increase  in  some 
little  vein  or  artery — perhaps  death,  may  turn  the 
shield,  and  we  be  amazed  at  the  simplicity  of  all 
our  puzzles.  But  probably  you're  in  no  hurry 

for  the  latter  solution:  few  folks  are  as  eager  for 
Heaven  as  they  profess  to  be." 

"I  don't  care!"  answered  Muriel,  gloomily. 
But  then,  influenced  a  little  by  the  contagion  of 
his  uncle,  hebrightened  up  and  said:  "But  don't  you 
really  play  with  the  questionof  a  longer  life,  as  you've 
just  been  doing  with  the  question  of  a  broader  one  ?" 


276  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

"  Sometimes,  perhaps." 

"Well,   give    us    some   of    your    notions,    Uncle 
Grand  :  I'll  promise  not  to  be  foolish  over  them." 

"  My  potions?  Few  men  have  any  notions  to 
speak  of  that  are  not  made  out  of  the  common 
stock.  We  simply  string  them  together  our 
own  way.  Well,  here's  one  of  my  strings  if  you 
want  it.  Plenty  of  others  have  had  strings  like  it. 
But  mind!  I  don't  say  that  there's  any  probability 
about  them.  We  can  only  get  up  hypotheses  at  best, 
but  there  may  be  no  harm  in  hanging  on  to  them 
provisionally,  if  you're  sure  to  hang  on  only  pro- 
visionally, and  don't  insist  upon  sending  to  Coven- 
try anybody  who  won't  hang  on  with  you.  Well: 
it  seems  pretty  reasonable  to  think  that  the  condi- 
tions of  imperfect  evolution  are  reducible,  in  the 
last  analysis,  to  the  limitations  we  group  as  time 
and  space.  You  really  intimated  that  yourself  a 
minute  ago.  Now,  take  away  those  limitations  (as 
we  get  hints  when  the  body  seems  to  go  toward 
death — in  dreams  and  some  somnambulistic  and 
hypnotic  conditions);  and  evolution  as  we  know 
it,  must  go  with  the  limitations;  and  with  it,  go 
its  painful  conditions.  Then  let  consciousness 
survive  unlimited  by  time  and  space;  and  let  it 
retain  (as  it  does  not  in  the  dreamy  states)  its 
coherent  relations  to  the  environment,  and  its 
correlating  powers  within  itself.  Then — time  and 
space  surmounted — the  whole  past,  the  whole  fu- 
ture, the  whole  scale  of  being — of  knowledge, 
thought,  and  feeling,  would  be  open  to  us — all  that 
had  been — all  that  may  be — Shakspere,  Socrates, 
Job — Rome,  Greece,  Egypt — Saturn,  Sirius,  Aldeb- 


Where  All  Roads  Meet.  ^77 

aran — and  all  not  in  the  evanescent  jumble  of 
dreams,  but  systematically  as  in  our  thinking  life, 
and  real  and  i  ntense  as,  you  know,  are  some  dreams 
which  are  more  powerful,  even  over  our  physical 
functions,  than  are  the  more  complex  and  disturbed 
emotions  of  our  waking  hours.  Such  a  state  of 
consciousness  would  seem  to  satisfy  all  the  noble 
curiosities,  and  the  nobler  and  deeper  and  more 
terrible  questions  of  the  affections." 

Muriel  paused  a  little  to  take  it  in,  and  then  ex- 
claimed gayly  :  "  Quite  a  comfortable  little  scheme 
for  immortality!  Any  patent  on  it?"  His  com- 
paratively untouched  young  life  left  him  respon- 
sive only  to  the  cheerful  side  :  not  to  the  pathetic 
suggestions  behind  Calmire's  last  words  and  his 
earlier  kindred  ones.  Even  the  recent  death  of 
her  who  had  filled  to  Muriel  his  mother's  place 
was  not  to  him  the  sort  of  loss  which  made  Calmire's 
strong  soul  shrink  before  those  terrible  problems. 

"In  some  shape  or  other,  the  notion  is  as  old  as 
history,"  responded  the  elder  man  to  the  younger's 
light  question.  "  Therefore  it's  not  patentable. 
But  let's  look  into  its  corollaries  a  little  seriously." 

"  Uncle  Grand,"  Muriel  interrupted,  "  I  may  have 
seemed  flippant;  but  I'll  apologize  if  you  say  so." 

"  Never  mind,  Muriel  !  I'm  ready,  at  last,  to  as- 
sume seriousness  underneath,  whenever  you  appear 
flippant.  Now  here's  what  it  all  leads  up  to — 
assuming  such  a  future,  what  sort  of  an  interpre- 
tation does  it  give  to  our  present  life?  The  uni- 
verse is  full  of  possibilities  of  growth  and  happiness. 
There's  a  '  call,'  so  to  speak,  for  souls  to  enjoy  them. 
The  souls  appear  (probably  in  a  myriad  more 


?7«  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

ways  than  we  know),  and  get  started  in  some 
school,  or  hot-bed,  or  whatever  you  see  fit  to  call  a 
planet;  but  they  appear,  so  far  as  we  can  conceive, 
under  limited  conditions.  It  seems  a  pity  that  the 
conditions  are  limited,  but  the  wherefore  seems 
none  of  our  business,  and  we  can't  even  conceive 
unlimited  ones  :  limited  they  are,  and  it's  only  our 
business  to  make  the  best  of  them.  Now  any  limited 
conditions  must  pall  in  time,  and  death  be  wel- 
come:  that's  not  saying  that,  so  far,  death  doesn't 
much  too  often  come  prematurely.  But  it's  simply 
mathematics  that,  to  a  being  continuing  to  live 
under  limited  conditions,  a  time  must  eventually 
come  when  death  would  be  welcome  :  therefore 
the  only  way  to  keep  up  what  enjoyment  the 
limited  conditions  hold,  is  to  keep  presenting 
them  to  new  lives.  Well!  the  new  soul  gets 
started  under  them,  and  the  tired  old  one  is  re- 
leased— but  released  to  free  swing  of  the  Uni- 
verse— free,"  and  his  tone  changed,  "for  unlimited 
association  with  all  those  who  have  preceded  us" 
— here  he  laid  his  hand  on  Muriel's,  adding — "and 
with  all  those  who  are  to  follow  us." 

Muriel  placed  his  other  hand  on  his  uncle's,  and 
they  were  silent  for  a  little  time.  At  last  Muriel 
said,  but  not  in  his  former  careless  voice:  "Uncle 
Grand,  does  that  scheme  hold  water?" 

"  I  never  said  it  did  !  In  fact,  I'm  not  prepared  to 
say  that  it's  anything  more  than  a  form  of  words." 

"How  about  the  deterioriation  of  the  faculties 
in  disease  and  old  age  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Perhaps  the  deterioration  is  only  of  the  appa- 
ratus they  work  through:  there  are  many  things — 


Where  All  Roads  Meet.  2/9 

vivid  dreams  and  memories  of  youth,  for  instance, 
that  look  as  if  the  faculties  themselves  might  be 
latent,  and  only  the  machine  out  of  order.  But," 
he  added  after  a  moment,  "there's  one  more  thing 
which,  much  as  I  avoid  the  questions  ordinarily, 
each  death  that  comes  close  to  me  makes  clearer. 
Very  likely  it  has  been  clearer  to  other  men  than  it 
is  yet  to  me;  but  I've  thought  much  over  it  since 
I've  talked  with  John.  It's  a  little  foreign  to  his 
habits  of  mind,  though,  and  our  language  is  so  mis- 
erably inadequate  that  I've  neVer  tried  to  express 
it  to  him." 

"Try  to  get  it  into  me,  Uncle  Grand:  I  feel  to- 
night as  if  I  could  catch  on  to  anything." 

"Very  likely  it  has  crossed  your  mind  in  some 
shape  before.  You  know  the  old,  old  notion  that 
our  souls  are  but  rills  from  the  infinite  soul: 
well,  there  seems  growing  reason  to  believe  it — 
you  know  about  different  individualities  existing 
at  different  times  in  the  same  body,  sometimes 
under  hypnotic  suggestion,  and  all  that.  Now 
if  after  separation  from  the  body,  the  rills  flow 
to  their  source,  it  is  conceivable  that  they  can 
blena  there  in  closer  union  than  love's  fondest 
dreams  ever  imagined  here.  An  obvious  objec- 
tion to  such  a  merging  in  the  All,  is  the  destruc- 
tion of  identity:  but  perhaps  we'd  better  agree  on 
what  identity  is,  before  we  begin  to  fear  for  its 
destruction.  No  one  of  us  knows  anything  more 
about  his  identity  than  that  there  is  an  element  of 
memory  in  each  moment's  group  of  thoughts  and 
feelings,  connecting  it  with  those  that  have  gone 
before;  and  it's  a  good  deal  to  assume  that  either 


2 80  Where  A II  Roads  Meet. 

consciousness  of  a  wider  group,  or  participation  of 
other  consciousness  in  that  wider  group,  is  going 
to  destroy  anything  in  *  identity'  that  we  need  care 
for.  In  fact,  isn't  the  one  thing  that  wise  people 
prize  most — sympathy  itself,  a  sort  of  blending  of 
individualities — the  participation  of  other  souls,  in 
one's  psychical  experiences;  and  one's  own  partici- 
pation in  those  of  other  souls?  But  aside  from  that 
doubtful  'identity'  difficulty,  there's  the  other  ob- 
jection that  in  the  interval  between  thedeathsof  two 
people  who  love  each'other,  their  souls  may  change 
beyond  sympathy,  or  even  beyond  what  we  know  as 
recognition.  Now  against  both  of  those  objections, 
we  have  the  virtually  demonstrable  fact  that  the  hu- 
man forms  we  love,  and  to  a  great  extent — perhaps 
entirely,  the  human  characters  we  love,  are  but  tem- 
porary and  varying  manifestations  of  the  Infinite 
Source  of  all  experiences.  It  is  not  inconceivable, 
then,  that  such  manifestations  may  be  accessible  at 
will  in  the  infinite  experience  independent  of  time 
and  space,  into  which  we  all  may  become  blended 
— that  we  may  take  up  any  broken  thread — that  we 
may  know  each  other  as  we  knew  each  other  at 
any  moment  here,  and  infinitely  better,  and  that, 
in  knowing  each  other,  we  may  know  All." 

"I  think  I  get  a  glimmer  of  the  conception," 
said  Muriel,  "  and  it's  the  greatest  conception  I 
ever  did  get  a  glimmer  of." 

"Well,"  responded  Calmire,  "  don't  put  too  much 
faith  in  glimmers.  But  don't  ignore  them  either: 
for  everything  we  know,  was  a  glimmer  once." 

"  And  you  believe  we're  going  to  know  more 
about  this  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Perhaps  \     But  all  the  same,  you'll  notice  that 


/  /  'lie re  A II  Roads  Meet.  28 1 

this  scheme  seems  to  oppose  some  contradictions 
to  the  one  I  sketched  before:  for  the  very  essence 
of  that  was  individuality,  while  this  one  seems  to 
attack  individuality.  And  so  we  can  go  on  sketch- 
ing schemes  forever,  and  find  each  not  quite  con- 
sistent with  the  rest.  It's  of  doubtful  .profit;  and 
yet  I  confess  that  while,  at  your  age  and  for  a  good 
many  years  later,  I  used  to  flout  all  idea  of  im- 
mortality, and  think  myself  very  bright  and  bold 
for  doing  it,  the  older  I  grow,  the  more  irrational 
flouting  it  seems,  and  the  apparent  Contradictions 
involved  in  it,  become  less  significant." 

"  Is  any  of  that  because  life  seems  of  more 
value  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"No!  I  don't  think  the  clinging  to  life  in- 
creases: perhaps  the  contrary.  It's  simply  because 
immortality  seems  less  unreasonable.  It's  probably 
best,  though,  that  we're  not  sure  of  it  now:  for  of 
the  relatively  few  really  absorbed  in  the  subject,  so 
many  who  have  felt  sure  of  a  future  life,  have  let 
it  take  the  significance  out  of  the  present  one." 

"  So  as  to  get  a  better  start  in  the  new  one  !" 
commented  Muriel. 

"  Certainly,"  responded  Calmire,  "and  in  face  of 
the  strong  presumption  that  the  best  way  to  get  a 
start  there,  is  to  exercise  the  soul  in  the  best  activi- 
ties here.  But,"  he  added  cheerfully,  after  a 
moment,  "  if  there's  anything  to  know,  we'll  know 
it  when  the  time  comes;  and  it's  wisest  all  around 
to  leave  it  to  take  care  of  itself  till  then,  and,  as 
you've  probably  heard  me  say  before,  go  about  our 
business." 

"  Especially  mine,"  exclaimed  Muriel,  "as  it's  so 
attractive." 


282  Where  All  Roads  Meet. 

"Fortunately,"  said  his  uncle,  "the  attractive- 
ness of  our  business  is  none  of  our  business.  1 
hear  the  whistle.  Write  me  as  often  as  you  can, 
and  keep  a  brave  heart.  You've  reached  the  point, 
I  think,  where  a  life  can't  be  altogether  spoiled. 
Few  happy  men  are  happy  in  their  own  way:  you 
may  yet  be  as  happy  as  most:  in  fact,  you  have 
conquered  the  things  that  make  the  unhappiness 
of  most.  Take  care  of  your  health,  so  that  your 
appetites — spiritual  and  physical,  will  respond  to 
every  natural  stimulus;  keep  yourself  occupied; 
don't  wait  for  something  to  turn  up,  but  turn 
something  up;  find  something  worth  doing,  and 
do  it  hard,  and  you'll  not  often  stop  to  think 
whether  you're  happy  or  not.  When  you  get  set- 
tled somewhere,  I  can  come  to  see  you;  and  what's 
more  to  the  point,  as  I'm  getting  old,  by  that 
time  there  will  be  nothing  here  to  prevent  your 
coming  back  to  see  me.  Good-bye!" 

And  Muriel  jumped  on  to  the  car  and  was 
whirled  back  into  his  loneliness,  while  Calmire 
drove  through  the  eloquent  night,  to  take  sym- 
pathy and  comfort  to  others  that  he  loved,  think- 
ing much  and  suffering  much,  but  with  the  stead- 
fast stars  mirrored  in  his  deep  soul. 

But  one  thing  disturbed  his  calm.  After  he 
had  said  that  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent 
Muriel's  coming  back,  he  thought,  with  a  start, 
of  Nina  at  Fleuvemont.  How  much  would  she  be 
there?  And,  generous,  honorable  gentleman  though 
he  was,  he  could  not  help  at  least  wondering  whence 
might  come  the  strong  guidance  that  her  strong 
young  nature  with  its  new  independence  of  tra- 
ditions, now  so  sorely  needed. 


CHAPTER    LXI. 

NOBLESSE    OBLIGE. 

THAT  young  lady,  however,  did  not  seem  in  any 
immediate  need  of  guidance,  for  she  had  enough 
of  it — not  in  the  shape  of  religion  or  philosophy, 
but  in  a  shape  even  more  effective — that  of  plenty 
to  do.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  for  the 
present  at  least,  until  some  suitable  relative  should 
be  freed  from  the  tangles  that  tended  to  hold  them 
all  away,  she  was  going  to  do  what  she  could  for 
Amelia's  children. 

She  decided,  too,  that,  before  coming  home,  John 
had  got  to  go  to  some  place  where  he  would  not 
be  reminded  of  his  loss  at  every  turn,  and  to  take 
Genevieve  with  him;  but  Nina  had  got  so  much 
tamed  down  from  her  habit  of  deciding  for  herself 
and  everybody  about  her,  that  she  opened  her  idea 
to  Calmire,  and  begged  him,  if  he  approved,  to 
manage  John.  He  did  approve,  and  John  required 
no  managing.  He  was  used  to  controlling  himself 
and  to  scorning  attempts  at  compromise  with  the 
irrevocable.  He  simply  said: 

"I'd  better  be  within  reach  of  you,  Calmire. 
Things  are  in  such  shape  that  they  won't  smash 
up  if  we're  both  away  for  a  few  weeks.  You  come 
too." 

So  Calmire  made  some  arrangements  at  the 

283 


284  Noblesse  Oblige. 

factories,  and,  with  Nina's  help,  at  John's;  and  in 
four  days  the  brothers  and  Genevieve  started  for 
the  mountains,  and  Nina  took  the  children  home 
to  John's. 

Since  the  early  Fall,  she  had  wondered  at  the 
relief  brought  to  her  own  sorrows  by  interesting 
herself  in  those  of  others,  and  during  frequent 
long  visits,  she  had  become  Amelia's  effective 
helper  in  her  work  among  the  sick  and  needy. 
She  had  also  grown  very  intimate  with  Mary 
Courtenay,  and  not  only  helped  her  in  the  admin- 
istration of  "  The  Home,"  but  had  herself  become 
quite  a  nurse,  and  was  very  fond  of  exercising  the 
art.  She  had  got  such  control  over  the  sick  boy  that 
she  had  seen  with  Muriel,  that  he  generally  recog- 
nized his  illusions  as  illusions,  and  when,  as  was 
becoming  more  frequently  the  case,  they  were  not 
attended  with  pain,  he  was  amused  by  them.  He 
had  gained  in  spirits  and  strength,  and  Doctor 
Rossman  was  hoping  for  a  cure. 

Probably  Nina  would  have  gone  to  that  house 
nearly  as  often  as  she  did,  even  if  Mrs.  Walters 
had  not  talked  so  much  about  Muriel;  for  though 
she  liked  most  of  what  Mrs.  Walters  told  her,  the 
thought  of  him  was  generally  pain.  Yet  she  would 
encourage  the  woman  to  run  on,  and  then  go  home 
and  be  miserable  over  it. 

The  relief  that  Nina  got  from  the  benevolent 
work  into  which  she  had  thrown  herself,  might 
perhaps  have  been  greater  if  it  had  not  brought 
her  into  such  frequent  contact  with  Courtenay. 
They  had  had  to  work  together  in  more  than  one 
charitable  scheme,  and  sometimes  had  had  their 


Noblesse  Oblige.  285 

sympathies  drawn  to  some  common  object  in  ways 
sure  to  draw  them  toward  each  other.  His  atti- 
tude toward  her  was  never  aggressive,  and  he 
never  distressed  her  by  any  exhibition  of  his  own 
distress  at  their  relations.  She  had  even  begun 
to  wonder  whether  his  calmness  was  based  on  the 
confidence  in  their  future  that  he  had  already 
professed;  and  this  was  so  uncomplimentary  to 
both  her  judgment  and  her  consistency,  that  the 
thought  of  it  was  a  little  irritating.  And,  too, 
in  presence  of  the  bravery  he  often  showed  before 
contagion  or  self-sacrifice,  she  had  begun  to 
wonder  how,  in  intellectual  matters,  he  could 
avoid  strenuous  problems,  and  accept  for  true, 
simply  that  which  seemed  most  good  and  beauti- 
ful—  how,  where  the  paths  that  lead  to  the  broadest 
views  reach  up  rugged  heights  and  must  be  fol- 
lowed blindly  into  many  clouds,  such  a  man  as  he 
should  note  only  the  level  ways  among  the  lilies — 
how,  in  short,  he  would  find  the  universe  as  benefi- 
cent as  he  was  himself.  Her  own  enthusiasm  had 
begun  to  crystallize  around  the  realization  that 
no  mistaken  belief,  however  beautiful  it  might  ap- 
pear, could  be  so  precious  as  the  homeliest  truth. 
She  had  come  to  know  the  enormous  difficulty  and 
rarity  of  intellectual  integrity — intellectual  hon- 
esty, she  had  come  to  call  it,  and  this  was  not 
complimentary  to  Courtenay. 

In  his  presence,  the  play  of  so  many  opposing 
feelings  was  apt  to  keep  her  nature  tremulous. 
Combinations  so  unstable,  of  course  contained  the 
elements  of  an  explosion,  and  as  soon  as  the  con- 
ditions were  supplied,  one  very  naturally  came. 


286  Noblesse  Oblige. 

Nina,  like  the  rest  of  the  people  we  are  telling 
about,  was  not  one  of  those  creatures  of  romance 
who  never  break  down.  One  morning  after  a 
night  that  had  been  restless,  partly  because  of  one 
of  John's  children  being  a  little  unwell,  and  before 
Nina  got  the  morning  nap  she  had  intended  to  take 
after  breakfasting  with  the  children,  she  had  been 
sent  for  to  soothe  young  Walters.  It  was  one  of 
those  prematurely  warm  days  of  early  Spring  when 
all  the  electrical  tone  is  lowered,  which  are  par- 
ticularly hard  on  sensitive  or  diseased  nerves.  At 
such  times,  despite  the  boy's  improvement,  he  was 
sure  to  have  relapses,  and  as  the  day  was  specially 
bad,  all  will  to  reason  against  his  illusions  seemed 
to  be  relaxed  by  the  dead  air,  and  when  Nina  got 
to  him,  he  was  almost  raving.  His  mother's  morale 
was  pretty  well  gone  before  she  was  willing  to 
disturb  Nina,  and  the  latter  found  the  poor  woman 
helplessly  wringing  her  hands,  and  praying  to  the 
Virgin  and  all  the  saints  in  a  fashion  which  proved 
that  her  American  accent  was  not  more  than  a 
generation  old,  if  as  much.  The  boy,  too,  was 
moaning,  and  sometimes  shrieking.  Into  this  little 
pandemonium,  Nina  went  with  a  resolute  gentle- 
ness that  calmed  the  woman  as  soon  as  she  saw 
Nina's  face,  and  that  soon  had  the  boy  diverted 
and  amused,  and  in  half  an  hour  sleeping  the  deep 
sleep  of  exhaustion.  To  interest  him,  she  had  for 
the  first  time  in  many  months  herself  introduced 
the  subject  of  Muriel.  Six  years  before,  when 
Muriel  was  a  strapping  boy  and  young  Walters  but 
a  little  chap,  Muriel  had  flung  him  a  pair  of  out- 
grown skates,  and  these  had  been  kept  when  not  ir 


Noblesse  Oblige. 

use,  Winter  and  Summer,  hanging,  brightly  pol- 
ished, by  the  fireplace  near  the  boy's  accustomed 
seat.  Nina,  although  she  knew  their  history,  seized 
them  as  one  of  the  best  things  to  rivet  the  boy's 
attention,  and  »ven  made  him  put  them  on  her 
feet,  whose  tiny  proportions  those  of  both  the 
owners  of  the  skates  had  years  before  grown  past. 
She  got  the  boy  busy  and  diverted,  but  it  cost  her 
dear. 

Going  home  at  a  pace  doubly  brisk  because  of 
her  nervous  excitement,  she  was  overtaken  by  still 
quicker  footsteps,  whose  haste  jarred  on  her  over- 
strained nerves.  It  was  Courtenay. 

He,  too,  was  out  of  sorts,  not  only  from  the  con- 
ditions which  that  day  affected  all  living  things,  but 
because  he  had  very  lately  undergone  one  of  those 
annoyances  from  the  over-appreciation  of  a  female 
member  of  his  congregation,  to  which  all  clergy- 
men are  subject.  Through  some  inherent  circum- 
stances, the  matter  had  come  to  the  knowledge  of 
one  of  his  deacons — a  bluff  kindly  old  gentleman, 
living  at  his  ease  in  Calmire,  and  he  had  half  an 
hour  before  said,  "I  tell  you  what,  Courtenay, 
you've  got  to  get  married.  It'll  be  a  great  pro- 
tection to  you  and  to  the  congregation.  A  man 
like  you  will  find  it  easy.  Go  ahead  !"  Courte- 
nay had  gone  out,  the  half-hour  before,  "to  walk 
the  thing  off,"  as  his  custom  was,  and  had  got  his 
spirit  again  at  peace  with  all  mankind — and  wo- 
mankind, and  was  in  rather  a  hopeful  state,  when 
he  caught  sight  of  Nina  in  front  of  him.  Without 
asking  himself  why,  he  very  naturally  started  to 
catch  up  with  her.  He  found  it  a  little  harder 


288  Noblesse  Oblige. 

than  he  had  counted  on,  so  when  he  was  beside 
her,  he  abruptly  exclaimed: 

"Why,  you're  running  away  from  me,  Miss 
Wahring !" 

She  was  just  in  the  mood  to  make  his  speech 
go  wrong — not  only  overstrained  to  the  verge  of 
hysteria,  but,  as  it  unfortunately  happened,  think- 
ing, with  justifiable  satisfaction,  of  her  success 
with  the  half-mad  boy,  and  of  a  thing  bolder  still 
which  had  lately  crossed  her  mind  more  than  once. 
Her  answer  was: 

"  I  run  away  from  nothing." 

The  general  drift  of  his  recent  half-formed 
thoughts  made  it  natural  for  him  tc  answer: 

"And  yet  you  avoid  me,  who  bring  you  nothing 
but  devotion.  Oh,  why,"  turning  his  beautiful 
pleading  eyes  directly  to  hers,  "  why  must  you  ?" 

"Because  you're  not  an  honest  man." 

Children  and  fools  tell  the  truth.  Nina  had 
undergone  a  strain  that  for  the  moment  was  too 
much  for  her  wisdom,  and  she  told  the  truth  as  it 
was  in  her. 

There  was  no  indignation  in  his  gentle  face,  but 
surprise  and  sorrow  unutterable.  Its  quick  change 
brought  her  to  herself,  but  the  realization  of  what 
she  had  said,  added  to  what  she  had  lately  under- 
gone, was  too  much  for  her  self-control.  She 
shrieked  out  hysterically: 

"What  have  I  done?  What  have  I  done  ?  Oh. 
my  friend,  forgive  me,  forgive  me !  You  can ! 
You're  so  noble!  You're  so  noble!" 

His  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  he  tried  to 
calm  her.  Fortunately  they  were  in  a  sequestered 
part  of  the  town,  where  the  few  houses  stood  well 


Noblesse  Oblige.  289 

back  in  the  lots,  and  where  the  people  were  of  a 
kind  to  be  busy  with  their  domestic  affairs  in  the 
rear  of  the  houses:  so  nobody  but  Courtenay 
heard  her  rave  on  : 

"  You  don't  understand  !  You  can't  understand  ! 
But  let  me  atone  !  Let  me  atone  !  I  know  you 
are  good  and  noble,  and  that  what  you  think  I 
meant,  is  vile  and  untrue  !  Let  me  atone!" 

He  had  taken  her  hands,  which  she  let  him  do, 
and  was  looking  down  kindly  and  soothingly  into 
her  face.  He  managed  to  make  her  listen  to  him 
say  : 

"  Do  calm  yourself,  dear  friend.  I  know  you 
never  meant  any  wrong." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was  wrong — cruelly,  vilely  wrong  !" 

The  shock  had  spent  itself,  she  was  calmer,  and 
she  started  to  walk,  without  taking  trom  Courte- 
nay the  hand  that  was  next  him.  He  put  it  on  his 
arm  with  the  unconscious  feeling  that  she  was  not 
herself,  and  needed  support. 

After  a  moment,  her  face  brightened  with  an 
impulse,  and  she  said  : 

"  See  here  !  I'll  prove  to  you  that  I  believe  in 
you.  Ask  me  anything :  I  shall  assent — I  am  at 
your  disposal." 

"  You  don't  love  me  ?" 

"  No." 

u  And  yet  I  am  to  presume,"  he  asked,  "  that 
despite  what  you  said  at  first  (which  I'll  not  at- 
tempt to  understand  now — or  ever,  if  you  prefer), 
you  believe  the  kind  things  you  said  later,  so  fully 
as  to  be  willing  to  trust  your  life  to  me?" 

"  I  shall  if  you  ask  it." 


290  Noblesse  Oblige. 

He  pondered  a  moment,  and  then  made  one  of 
the  master-strokes  of  his  life  : 

"You  put  the  greatest  prize  you  could  before 
me,  to  prove  your  faith  that  I  would  not  take  it 
selfishly  ?" 

"Yes,  that  was  my  feeling — the  prize  you  had 
thought  great." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  exclaimed  : 
"  How  you  have  honored  me  !  No  man  could  ever 
deserve  it.  But  I  can  at  least  act  as  if  I  did." 
And  he  gently  lowered  the  arm  on  which  her  hand 
was  still  resting,  so  as  to  release  it.  Then  he 
said  :  "  But  may  I  not  hope  yet  to  obtain  the 
blessing  for  reasons  that  would  make  it  right  to 
have  it  ?" 

Nina  was  now  very  much  herself : 

"  You  have  just  proved  how  you  can  be  trusted. 
Now  I  am  going  to  trust  you  to  believe,  whether 
you  understand  it  or  not — for  you  have  a  genius 
for  believing  things  you  don't  understand  " — she 
said  it  with  a  smile  which  seemed  to  crown  him 
— "  to  believe  that  it  is  a  deep,  deep  grief  to 
me,  to  have  to  tell  you  that  only  such  reasons 
as  influenced  me  just  now,  could  ever  influence 
me  in  that  way.  As  you  are  too  noble  to  avail 
yourself  of  them,  I  can  now  say  that,  in  declining, 
you  have  acted  wisely,  as  well  as  nobly.  I  could 
never  make  you  happy;  and  perhaps  I  owe  you 
the  confidence  of  saying  that  I  could  not  have 
made  that  strange  offer,  if  there  were  anything  to 
make  me  happy.  But  oh  !"  she  added  a  moment 
later,  taking  his  hand,  "  I  do  respect  you  so,  though 
we  are  so  different !  Let  me  be  the  best  friend 


Noblesse  Oblige.  291 

to  you  that  woman  ever  was  to  man;  I  half  believe 
I  can  be,  and  I  should  consider  the  right  to  be,  an 
honor  through  all  my  life." 

For  many  moments  he  gave  no  answer.  Then 
he  turned  to  her  with  the  expression  on  his  face 
that  deplored  the  death  of  what  was  dear — the 
expression  he  wore  at  the  memorial  meeting  when 
he  faltered  in  speaking  of  Amelia,  and  when  Nina 
gave  him  strength  to  go  on.  This  time,  as  his 
eyes  met  hers,  she  strengthened  him  again,  and  he 
said: 

"  I  had  a  beautiful  dream.  I  understand  it  nofr. 
There  is  something  strange  in  the  reality  you  offer 
me — something  that  seems  to  me  (though  the  dream 
did  too)  to  come  from  God — it  is  so  strong  and 
true.  I  feel  it  now  for  the  second  time.  It  is  better 
than  what  most  men  call  love.  I  am  grateful,  and 
I  will  try  to  be  worthy." 

"  You  will  not  have  to  try,  my  dear  friend." 

They  walked  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  when  she 
said: 

"  We  are  so  different  that  I  don't  believe  I  can 
ever  make  you  understand  what  it  was  that  led 
me  to  say  that  vile  thing  to  you.  Yet  I  feel  a  little 
as  if  I  wanted  to  try." 

"  You  think  an  honest  man  believes  only  what 
he  knows  ?" 

"  No:  but  he  shouldn't  try  to  believe  in  spite  of 
what  he  knows.  But  I  had  no  right  to  use  that 
word  in  speaking  to  you,  because  to  you  it  means 
something  I  did  not  mean.  To  you  it  means  only 
moral  honesty,  to  me  it  means  both." 

"  You  don't  think  I'm  intellectually  honest !" 


292  Noblesse  Oblige. 

"  I  think  you  intend  to  be.  But  I  don't  think 
we  could  ever  understand  each  other.  You  know 
Mr.  Calmire:  now  I'm  not  sure  that  you're  not  a 
better  man  than  he  is,  but  you're  not  as  honest,  in 
the  sense  I  mean." 

"  Now  I'm  getting  some  idea  of  what  you  mean," 
he  answered.  "That  man  is  so  honest  that  every 
time  I  come  near  him,  I  feel  weak  and  ashamed." 

"  My  friend  John  Courtenay  has  no  right  to  feel 
weak  and  ashamed  before  any  man  that  ever  lived, 
and  I  won't  have  it !"  said  the  Nina  of  other  days, 
playfully  seizing  his  arm  and  stamping  her  foot. 

A  breeze  soon  came,  and  they  walked  on  more 
rapidly,  but  in  congenial  silence,  until  they  reached 
his  corner,  when  he  said:  "  May  I  go  on  with  you  ? 
I  want  to  tell  you  something — to  prove  that  I 
welcome  your  friendship,  by  taxing  it  for  a  little 
sympathy,  and  perhaps  advice." 

"  You  make  me  very  happy.     What  is  it  ?" 
"I  am  going  to  set  up  as  an  honest  man!" 
"  Mr.  Courtenay!     What  do  you  mean  ?"  looking 
up  at  him. 

"  I  mean  that  you've  pulled  the  last  scale  from 
my  eyes.  There's  been  something  going  on  in  me 
since  I  knew  you  that  I  haven't  told  you  or  any- 
body. It  began  when  you  first  told  me  that  you 
could  not  be  my  wife.  (It  seems  to  me  that  every 
great  growth  has  its  root  in  some  great  suffering.) 
This  was  the  way  of  it :  I  had  felt,  you  know,  that 
God  had  destined  us  for  each  other.  I  wanted  to 
feel  it,  and  it  seemed  good  to  feel  it :  so  I  did  feel 
it.  Well:  your  kindness  and  truthfulness  that  time 


Noblesse  Oblige.  293 

— your  divine  sweetness  and  goodness  (since  you've 
given  me  a  friend's  right  to  say  as  enthusiastic 
things  to  you  as  I  please)  got  through  my  dense 
head  some  sense  that  there  was  a  divine  in  you 
which  contradicted  what  I  had  assumed  to  be  the 
divine  in  me,  and  in  time  I  came  to  see  that  it 
wasn't  very  modest  to  set  mine  up  against  yours." 

"But,  Mr.  Courtenay — " 

"Let  me  go  on,  please:  I  owe  you  something — 
very  much,  and  it  will  do  me  good  to  tell  you  of 
it,  and,"  he  looked  down  smiling,  "  you're  going  to 
be  the  means  of  all  the  good  to  me  you  can  now, 
aren't  you  ?" 

She  reached  out  and  took  his  hand  and  held  it 
for  an  instant. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "all  that  set  me  thinking: 
and  I  realized  that  I  believed  many  other  things 
merely  because  I  wanted  to — even  things  at  first 
unreasonable  and  repugnant  to  me,  simply  because 
I  wanted  to  believe  the  whole  system  of  my  church. 
I  had  been  taught  that  the  harder  to  believe,  I 
found  anything,  the  more  I  must  try  to  believe  it. 
Many  a  night  of  strife  and  agony  have  I  passed  to 
crowd  somewhere  into  my  faith,  things  which,  in  the 
last  few  months,  other  nights  of  strife  and  agony 
have  taken  out.  But  I  don't  want  to  trouble  you 
with  my  struggles.  Perhaps  you  know  a  little 
of  how  I  was  brought  up.  My  poor  old  father  was 
a  splendid  man — a  man  of  New  England  granite 
(we  were  from  there  originally,  you  know),  but  he 
had  its  faults  as  well  as  its  virtues.  Yet  I  honored 
him  so!  And  of  late  years — since  I  have  been  old 
enough  to  appreciate  a  great  sorrow  brought  on  by 


294  Noblesse  Oblige. 

his  stony  virtues,  I  have  loved  him  so!  But  though 
I  left  his  church  for  one  of  a  more  merciful  faith, 
when  I  was  very  young,  that  wasn't  much  of  a  strain, 
and  I  couldn't  really  reason  much  against  him  while 
he  lived.  But  soon  after  you  set  me  thinking,  he 
died,  and  among  the  last  things  he  said  to  me  was: 
"  John,  I  haven't  felt  the  love  of  God  enough.  Our 
fathers  handed  us  down  a  terrible  faith,  I'm  old 
now,  and  I  see  so  many  good  men  disbelieving  those 
terrible  things.  Learn  of  Love,  John.'  I  was 
learning  of  it ! — as  the  poor  old  man  little  sus- 
pected," said  Courtenay  with  the  nearest  approach 
to  bitterness  in  his  tone,  that  Nina  had  ever  heard. 

"Oh  John!"  exclaimed  Nina,  simply.  "I'm  so 
sorry!"  She  had  echoed  his  Christian  name  not 
quite  unconsciously,  but  with  a  little  feeling  of 
sympathetic  spontaneity. 

"  Don't  you  be  sorry  a  bit,  dear.  You've  been 
everything  to  me  without  meaning  to  be." 

"Not  without  wanting  to  be — in  such  ways," 
said  Nina. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Courtenay,  "I  believe  God 
did  send  you  to  me  after  all! — though  I  don't  pro- 
fess to  know  as  much  about  His  ways  as  I  did  once. 
Well,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  my  poor  old  father's 
last  words  set  me  thinking  a  great  deal  more,  so 
that  the  next  Sunday  in  church,  I  did  not  like  the 
people  all  calling  themselves  '  miserable  sinners  ' — 
among  them  my  dear  old  mother  who,  I  verily 
believe,  never  committed  a  sin  in  her  life.  Then 
there  was  the  cry  through  the  litany,  of  '  Spare  us, 
spare  us,  good  Lord!'  as  if  God  were  a  vengeful 
tyrant  to  be  propitiated  by  complimentary  address. 


Noblesse  Oblige.  295 

So  all  these  things  led  me  to  ponder  on  the  views 
of  the  men  who  got  up  our  liturgy,  and  at  last  I've 
come  to  see  that  my  views  are  not  their  views  at 
all,  or  those  of  anybody  who  got  up  a  church  in 
the  gray  cold  morning  before  our  present  knowl- 
edge rose.  They  were  narrow  and  slavish,  and 
they  even  cramped  the  grand  image  of  our  Master 
down  to  fit  their  feudal  notions.  I  love  God 
more,  since  I've  got  rid  of  so  much  of  the  foolish- 
ness that  men  have  talked  about  Him.  No!  I  can't 
believe  as  they  did.  And  I've  been  reading 

earlier  too — not  in  the  books  that  leftout  everything 
that  did  not  support  the  current  notions,  and  I  find 
that  almost  all  the  things  in  Christianity  which 
anybody  can  call  unreasonable,  were  simply  the  ex- 
travagances with  which  the  world  was  filled  while 
Christianity  was  taking  shape,  and  are  not  peculiarly 
Christian  at  all.  Those  who  tried  to  record  the  tra- 
ditions of  Christ,  simply  colored  them  with  the 
phases  of  thought  prevalent  throughout  their 
world,  and  represented  Christ  as  saying  and  doing 
many  things  that  he  could  never  have  said  or 
done.  And  I've  come  to  see,  too,  that  men  at 

different  grades  of  knowledge  must  put  different 
constructions  on  whatever  Christ  did  say:  and  so 
each  age  hands  down  doctrines  which  laterages  find 
absurd.  Well,  through  all  this,  I've  come  to 

sympathize  with  the  men  whom,  God  forgive  me, 
I've  helped  to  persecute — the  men  who  are  making 
our  church  a  church  for  to-day,  and  not  for  two 
hundred,  or  two  thousand,  years  ago." 

"  How    are    you    going    to    manage    about    the 
liturgy  of  two  hundred  years  ago?"  Nina  thought 


296  Noblesse  Oblige. 

to  herself,  but  wisely  said  nothing,  and  Courtenay 
went  on: 

"  And  now,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  that,  going 
back  to  that  time  when  you  made  me — when  I 
made  myself,  suffer  so  because  of  you,  I  owe  you 
my  intellectual  emancipation,  and  that  word  means 
a  great  deal — a  very  great  deal,"  he  added  in  a 
tone  of  pathetic  earnestness,  "and  I'm  proud  and 
happy  to  owe  it  to  you." 

"You're  not  as  proud  and  happy  as  you're  mak- 
ing me,  my  friend — if  I  could  only  believe  myself  to 
deserve  it  all,  but  there  are  too  many  other  things 
working  in  the  same  direction  in  these  days." 

"  Yes,  and  until  you  came,  didn't  they  glance 
from  me  as  if  I'd  inherited  all  my  father's  granite  ? 
No,  lady  fair!  your  magic  softened  the  stone." 

She  touched  his  hand  again. 

After  a  minute's  silence,  he  said  :  "And  now  to 
keep  up  my  new  character  of  an  honest  man,  I've  got 
to  tell  you  something  more  : — that  pestilent  old 
way  of  believing  things  because  I  wanted  to,  has 
blinded  me  about  you  and  me." 

"Ah  !  you  didn't  want  me  so  much,  after  all  !" 
exclaimed  Nina,  still  nervous  enough  to  push  a  lit- 
tle banter  between  herself  and  the  painful  subject, 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  did,  but  it  has  all  grown  clear 
since  we  began  talking.  It's  as  you  made  me 
suspect  long  ago — I  never  could  have  made  you 
happy,  even  though  I'm  now  getting  to  look  at 
things  more  as  you  do;  and  the  consciousness  of 
not  making  you  happy  would  have  made  me 
miserable  all  my  life — if  anybody  could  be  miser- 
able near  you.  You  have  more  thoughts  than  I 


Noblesse  Oblige.  297 

have,  and  our  thoughts  come  from  different  sides 
of  things.  Between  us  lies  the  old  gulf  that  will 
separate  Aristotelians  from  Platonists  to  the  end 
of  time — Although,"  he  added  with  a  laugh,  "  they 
did  try  to  bridge  it  at  the  same  time  they  were  in- 
fusing the  absurdities  into  the  traditions  of  Christ: 
but  I've  done  with  thaumaturgies  now.  There  are 
those  two  different  ways  of  looking  at  things,  and 
people  born  with  the  opposite  ways  can't  live  to- 
gether as  one  person.  I've  known  at  least  one 
couple  to  do  that,  and  I  never  saw  such  happiness: 
and  you  must  have  no  h-appiness  but  the  best." 

His  single-minded  devotion  brought  the  tears  to 
Nina's  eyes,  but  in  a  moment  she  turned  to  him 
smiling  through  them,  and  said  :  "  So  must  you 
have  the  best,  John.  Now  that  you  see  you  have 
made  a  mistake  regarding  me  (though  some  of 
your  reasons  are  more  complimentary  than  I  de- 
serve), your  life  is  not  going  to  be  maimed,  and  I 
feel  sure  that  it  will  yet  be  full  in  every  respect." 

"  I  should  have  to  change  a  great  deal  first,"  he 
said. 

"It  seems  to  me  you're  learning  how,  and  that 
it's  far  from  doing  you  harm." 

"  Perhaps!"  he  said  rather  sadly,  and  then  con- 
tinued in  a  cheerful  tone  :  "  But  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing you  can  do  for  me.  You  can  continue  keeping 
me  from  running  to  extremes,  as  you've  lately  been 
doing:  for,  you  know,  people  of  those  opposite 
kinds  of  mind  we  were  talking  about,  make  the 
best  possible  friends,  if  they're  only  broad-minded, 
and  I'm  going  to  be  very  broad-minded  now!" 

And    Courtenay    straightened    himself   up   and 


298  Noblesse  Oblige. 

squared  out  his  broad  shoulders  all  in  a  humorous 
way  that  was  almost  the  first  healthy  attempt  in 
that  direction  which  Nina  had  known  him  to 
make. 

In  a  moment,  she  said,  almost  as  if  meditating: 
"And  yet  I  said  you  were  not  an  honest  man,  and 
you  admitted  it!  Heaven  forgive  us  both!"  Then 
she  looked  up  at  his  beautiful  face,  strengthened 
by  his  recent  struggles  and  his  new  resolution,  and 
her  mind  was  crossed  by  a  thought  that  enraged 
her:  "  How  would  it  have  been,  if  he  had  been  like 
this  a  few  months  earlier?" 

And  any  calm  student  of  human  nature  might 
wonder  how  it  might  be  a  few  years  later. 


CHAPTER    LXIL 
A  HUNTER'S  FIND. 

SINCE  Minerva  had  been  well  enough  to  read, 
she  had  had  three  letters  from  Muriel.  In  the  first 
two  he  had  poured  out  all  the  enthusiasm  of  self- 
sacrifice  whose  excesses  Calmire  had  gently  re- 
buked, but  he  had  had  an  unconscious  deference  to 
Minerva's  weak  condition  that  prevented  his  bur- 
dening her  with  details;  and  the  general  effect  on 
her  was  reassuring  and  sustaining. 

It  was  a  fortnight  after  Calmire  and  Muriel  had 
separated,  when  Minerva  received  the  third  letter: 

"  I'm  coming  on  Thursday  afternoon  to  see  you 
and  talk  with  you  about  going  away.  It  seems 
best  that  you  should  be  where  neither  of  us  is 
known. 

"What  will  be  best  next,  we  must  wait  to  see; 
but  if  such  happiness  as  is  possible  to  yourself, 
and  all  the  good  that  is  possible  for  the  child,  do 
not  come,  it  shall  not  be  because  I  do  not  devote 
myself  to  securing  them. 

"Trust  me. 

"M.  C." 

"May  29,  1 8 — ." 

Muriel  had  directed  it  to  Huldah,  writing  in  the 

corner:  "  For  M.  G." 

299 


3OO  A  Hunter's  Find. 

On  Wednesday  afternoon,  which  was  bright  and 
balmy,  Minerva  ventured,  as  she  had  done  once  or 
twice  before,  to  take  her  baby,  which  was  now 
over  a  month  old,  a  little  way  back  of  the  house 
to  a  pretty  secluded  spot  beside  a  brook.  She 
found  the  infant  a  very  amusing  toy,  but  she 
was  her  mother's  daughter,  and  her  mother  had 
deserted  her. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  log,  singing  low  to  the  child, 
whom  she  had  nursed  and  put  to  sleep,  when  she 
saw  a  man  with  a  rifle  over  his  shoulder  coming 
through  the  woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook. 
She  rose  to  conceal  herself,  but  it  was  too  late:  the 
man  had  the  far  sight  of  one  who  had  spent  many 
youthful  days  in  the  fields,  and  four  years  in  war. 
He  recognized  her  and  called  out: 

"Why,  Minervy!" 

She  flushed  and  trembled,  but  sat  still  until  he 
had  crossed  the  brook  on  the  stones,  and  stopped 
on  the  bank  a  little  way  from  her,  and  stood 
there  leaning  on  his  gun,  and  smiling  at  her.  He 
was  a  tender-souled  gentleman,  though  rugged 
in  speech  and  garb;  and  after  his  first  ejacu- 
lation of  surprise,  and  the  reception  by  his  rather 
slow  but  wonderfully  sure  wits  of  the  fact  that 
perhaps  he  was  not  wanted,  he  felt  shy  about  in- 
truding upon  her. 

With  a  tremendous  effort,  she  spoke  first: 

"Well,  Clint,  where  in  the  world  did  you  come 
from  ?" 

"Been  up  the  maountain.  There's  been  some 
sort  of  a  beast  up  there  comin'  down  among 
the  sheep,  and  none  of  the  folks  could  git  him, 


A  Hunter  s  Find.  301 

and  Jim  Bellows  wrote  down  to  me,  and  so  I  went 
for  him." 

"  Did  you  get  him  ?" 

"  Git  him?  God  a'mighty!  He  got  me!  My 
gun  hung  fire,  so  I  only  hurt  him  a  little,  and  he 
got  madder'n  blazes  and  dropped  down  on  top  o' 
me.  So  I  had  to  choke  him  to  death." 

"  You  choked  him  to  death  ?"  cried  Minerva,  with 
big  staring  eyes. 

"Sure!  He  got  me  so  that  it  was  my  throat  or 
hisn,  and  I  nat'r'lly  preferred  it  to  be  hisn." 

"Great  God!  Didn't  he  hurt  you?"  The  idea 
of  Clint  with  the  beast  at  his  throat  made  her  al- 
most sick. 

"  Scratch  or  two!  And  tore  my  coat  considerbul," 
and  Clint  held  up  a  sleeve  that  hung  in  strips. 
So  did  the  flannel  shirt  under  it,  and  there  was 
blood  on  both.  "  Does  look  kind  o'  mussed,  don't 
it?"  he  added,  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  Poor  dear  old  Clint !"  murmured  Minerva,  and 
he  drew  nearer. 

Minerva  hung  her  head  and  felt  as  if  she  wanted 
to  sink  into  the  earth. 

"  Why,  what  you  got  there  ?"  said  Clint,  softly. 
"  Blest  if  'tain't  a  baby  !" 

Despite  Clint's  cautious  tones,  the  baby  had 
woke  up,  and  was  looking  very  quietly  at  Clint  with 
its  great  serious  eyes. 

"  Purty  little  thing!"  said  Clint,  holding  out  a 
great  finger  to  it.  "May  I  take  it?  Always  liked 
'em." 

Minerva  let  Clint  take  it,  which  he  did  with  sur- 
prising skill  and  a  tenderness  that,  in  him,  was  not 
surprising  at  all. 


302  A  Hunter  s  Find. 

He  looked  at  it  with  great  interest.  "Purty 
little  thing!"  he  repeated.  "Where  'd  you  git  it? 
Hain't  been  married  all  this  time  and  not  let  any- 
body know  about  it  ?"  and  he  laughed  pleasantly 
at  his  bovine  joke. 

"  I'm  not  married;"  and  she  hid  her  scarlet  face 
in  her  hands.  Then  an  idea  struck  her.  "You 
shouldn't  make  such  jokes,  Clint,  and  make  me 
hide  my  face.  Of  course  the  baby  belongs  where 
I'm  staying." 

Clint  laughed  again,  and  said,  "  Didn't  mean  no 
offence,  Minervy."  Then,  still  holding  the  baby, 
he  sat  down  on  the  log  beside  her. 

"  What  made  you  go  'way  without  sayin'  anything 
or  even  biddin'  a  feller  good-bye  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  miserable,  Clint.  Hardly  any- 
body but  you,  at  least  among  our  people,  was  kind 
to  me,  and  I  got  a  sudden  chance  to  come  away 
and  stay  with  some  people  near  here,  and  just  felt 
like  slinking  out  of  sight  and  hiding  myself.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  say  good-bye  to  you,"  she  said, 
turning  her  great  swimming  brown  eyes  toward 
him,  "  for  you'd  been  so  good  to  me." 

"  Sho!  'Twarn't  nothin ' !"  said  Clint,  putting  his 
big  right  forefinger  into  the  corner  of  his  right  eye, 
while  the  baby  reposed  comfortably  on  his  left  arm. 
"  But  now  I've  caught  you,"  he  continued,  "  mayn't 
I  come  to  see  you  again  ?" 

"  You're  always  so  good,  Clint,  but  it's  very  far." 

"  Sakes  alive!  Ain't  I  just  been  further'n  this 
to  see  a  catamaount  ?  And  I'd  a  sight  rather  see 
you."  And  he  laughed  heartily  again,  and  she 
managed  to  laugh  a  little  with  him. 


A  Hunter's  Find.  303 

She  reflected  that  she  was  going  away  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  that  he  would  not  be  at  all  likely  to 
take  a  second  consecutive  day  from  the  mill;  so 
there  was  no  need  of  opposing  him  farther. 

"Guess  I'll  have  to  come  and  glimpse  at  you," 
he  persisted.  "Where  you  stayin'?" 

Her  old  instinct  of  coquetry  stood  her  in  good 
stead  now.  Turning  toward  him  in  her  old  saucy 
way,  she  said: 

"I  thought  you  said  you'd  caught  me,  and  yet 
you  don't  know  where  I  live.  Now  you've  got  to 
find  that  out  too."  Her  natural  impulses  were 
strong  enough  to  carry  it  out  lightly,  but  her  heart 
felt  terribly  heavy  over  the  prospect  that  she  was 
never  to  see  this  faithful  friend  again,  and  not  a 
little  over  the  deception  she  was  practising  upon 
him. 

"Well,"  laughed  Clint,  feeling  all  the  fascina- 
tion of  her  way,  "  I  guess  you  won't  be  harder 
to  find  than  the  catamaount.  But  here  I  am, 
losin'  the  train!  I've  got  to  git  back  to  start  the 
night-gang,  and  I  feel  a  bit  tuckered  and  don't  want 
to  have  to  walk  the  hull  way.  This  arm  with  the 
baby  hurts  a  little  too.  Good-bye!  I'll  find  you." 

He  rose  and  kissed  the  baby  and  handed  it  to 
her.  Then  as  he  looked  down  on  her,  he  almost 
unconsciously  exclaimed,  "I'd  like  to  kiss  you 
too!"  but  added  in  a  bashful  exculpatory  way, 
"  It's  so  long  since  I've  seen  you!" 

It  was  a  strange  fact  that  Clint  never  had  kissed 
her,  or  tried  to:  and  probably  he  would  not  have 
thought  of  doing  it  now,  if  something  in  her  atti- 
tude and  expression  as  she  took  the  child  had  not 


304  A  Hunter 's  Find. 

made  him  feel  toward  her  exactly  as  he  had  felt 
when  he  kissed  the  child. 

She  rose,  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  face  that  he  never  forgot — it  was  awful, — 
and  she  said,  "You  may  if  you  want  to,  Clint,"  and 
he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  forehead  and  was  gone. 

He  thought  of  that  face  late  into  the  night,  until 
he  was  driven  to  sleep  by  the  fatigue  of  his  morn- 
ing's struggle. 

When  he  awoke  the  next  day,  refreshed  and 
buoyant,  that  face  came  up  again  and  sobered  him. 
Then  with  the  activity  of  wit  that  a  healthy  man 
always  feels  while  dressing  in  the  morning,  he 
thought  over  the  details  of  his  interview  with 
Minerva — most  prominent,  of  course,  the  baby; 
and  then  again  came  up  her  strengthened  and 
saddened  face.  That  was  strange  !  Then,  by 

the  law  of  contrast,  he  saw  her  face  brightened 
as  she  bantered  him  about  finding  her  out.  That 
was  natural  enough  !  But  she  had  told  him  ab- 
solutely nothing.  In  just  the  same  way,  she  had 
told  absolutely  nothing  when  she  left  the  town. 
At  the  time,  that  too  seemed  strange.  True,  the 
people  whom  she  could  talk  with  about  it,  had 
not  treated  her  in  a  way  to  lead  her  to  say  any- 
thing to  them;  but  why  in  the  world  shouldn't 
she  have  said  something  to  him  ?  He  had  seen 
her  the  very  night  before  she  went;  and  two  or 
three  days  later,  he  learned  that  the  house  was 
locked  up,  and  a  little  later  still,  Bevans  the  fur- 
niture man  had  packed  up  everything  and  sent 
it  to  old  Granzine  in  Massachusetts,  where  he 


A  Hunter's  Find.  305 

had  gone  to  live  with  his  brother.  Why  had  not 
Minerva  gone  there  too  ?  Clint  had  supposed  that 
she  had,  but  now  that  she  was  near,  her  not 
having  spoken  appeared  doubly  unaccountable. 
Then  came  again  that  face  of  hers  when  she  let 
him  kiss  her  the  day  before. 

"Damned  if  I  like  it!"  he  said  aloud — a  strange 
thing  for  him.  Then,  after  a  little  more  fitful 
cogitation,  he  mumbled — a  still  stranger  thing  in 
him:  "  Must  have  had  to  go  to  livin'  out  and  doin' 
nussin'.  Maybe  she's  stuck  up  about  lettin'  me  come 
to  see  her — don't  want  nobody  to  know  about  it — 
can't  see  her  company  in  the  parlor,  maybe.  That's 
the  reason,  too,  that  she  looked  so  kinder  ashamed 
and  serious.  But  she  hadn't  oughter  feel  that  way, 
leastways  with  me:  ain't  I  her  friend  ?" 

And  Clint  performed  the  operation  which  more 
introspective  people  call  dismissing  a  subject  from 
their  minds.  At  least  he  flattered  himself  he  had, 
but  he  hadn't. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  that  Calmire  had 
managed  his  interview  with  Clint  the  day  after 
Muriel  went  away,  some  half  year  before,  with  such 
consummate  tact  that  not  even  yet  had  Clint  im- 
agined the  real  situation.  But  Calmire's  experiences 
in  diplomacy  had  not  weakened  his  natural  powers; 
and  he  had  performed  just  that  marvelous  feat. 

Probably  Clint  could  not  have  very  readily  de- 
scribed the  feelings  which,  a  little  later,  made  him 
say  again  half  aloud  :  "  Poor  thing  !  she  hain't 
got  no  brother  now,  and  her  father  never  was 
worth  a  continental,  and  he  ain't  worth  half  a  con- 
tinental now." 


306  -      A  Hunter  s  Find. 

By  the  time  he  had  walked  meditatively  to  the 
mill,  he  had  come  around  to  a  repetition  of  sub- 
stantially the  same  phrase  with  the  addition : 
"And  she  ain't  married  !  Guess  I've  got  to  look 
arter  her  myself !" 

But  this:  "She  ain't  married,"  now  insisted  on 
coming  up  again,  and  the  vision  of  the  baby  was 
presenting  itself  at  intervals  all  along.  But  Clint's 
was  not  a  soul  to  which  suspicion  of  evil  was  natu- 
ral; rather  it  was  one  to  which  it  was  natural  when 
suspicion  approached,  to  ward  it  off.  The  word 
"  gentleman"  is  open  to  several  definitions. 

He  had  got  away  from  the  mill  the  day  before, 
because  of  some  repairs  needed  in  the  machinery. 
They  were  found  to  be  more  serious  than  at  first 
supposed.  The  night-gang  he  had  come  home  to 
start,  had  not  gone  on,  and  he  found  no  chance  that 
the  day-gang  could  work.  So,  after  fussing  around 
a  little,  looking  for  odd  jobs  to  make  himself  useful, 
he  felt  justified  in  turning  homeward,  and  he 
walked  slowly  and  meditatively.  Before  he  got 
to  his  boarding-house,  he  had  said  to  himself: 
"  Here's  a  good  chance  to  go  out  and  look  into 
this  thing,  and  see  if  there's  anything  to  be  done 
about  it." 

When  he  got  into  his  little  sitting-room,  he  felt 
like  dressing  up  a  little  more  than  he  had  done  to 
go  to  the  mill:  Clint  was  a  spruce  fellow  when  off 
duty.  When  he  went  to  a  closet  for  his  clothes, 
his  eye  fell  upon  his  gun.  He  seldom  went  to 
walk  in  the  country  without  it.  Even  at  this 
season,  he  could  get  a  shot  at  a  rabbit,  and  rabbits 
were  getting  to  be  a  nuisance.  Yet  this  time,  he 


A  Hunter's  Find.  3°7 

said  to  himself,  without  half  realizing  what  he  was 
saying:  "Like's  not  another  catamaount's  got  an- 
other lamb!"  Then  he  turned  scarlet,  half  with 
rage  at  the  idea,  and  half  with  shame  at  entertain- 
ing it,  and  burst  out:  "  If  one  has,  he's  too  damned 
dirty  to  choke,  and  I  guess  I'd  better  take  that 
thing  along." 

He  went  back  from  the  closet  and  sat  down,  and 
leaned  both  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  chin  in 
his  hands,  and  for  some  minutes  looked  across 
out  of  the  window.  His  was  one  of  those  natures 
which  move  gradually,  like  the  elemental  forces, 
but  irresistibly  too,  toward  tremendous  climaxes 
of  love  or  hate.  At  last  he  arose  and,  with  move- 
ments unnaturally  slow  for  him,  went  to  the  closet. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  the  clothes  he  had  first 
gone  there  for,  but  took  the  gun  and  started  out  in 
his  work-a-day  garb  to  find  Minerva  Granzine,  with 
a  grim  purpose,  though  half  defined,  to  succor  or 
avenge  her. 


CHAPTER   LXIII. 

THE   FINDER'S   HUNT. 

CLINT  tried  in  vain  to  find  Minerva  at  two  houses 
within  an  easy  walk  of  their  meeting-place  of  the 
day  before.  As  he  turned  away  from  the  second 
place,  he  groaned,  for  Huldah  Cronin's  was  the 
only  house  left,  and  Clint  did  not  know  any  satis- 
factory method  of  accounting  for  a  baby  there. 
He  had  heard,  too,  that  Huldah  never  would  see 
anybody.  It  was  not  his  way  to  turn  back,  though. 

The  negress  came  to  the  door. 

"  Is  the  lady  of  the  house  to  home  ?"  asked  Clint. 

"  No,  sah,  she  ain't.     She  done  gone  away." 

Clint  thought  this  was  a  ruse,  though  the  wo- 
man's good-natured  expression  did  not  look  like 
it. 

"  Now  see  here,  Queen  o'  Night,"  said  he,  "  I 
want  to  see  that  lady,  to  find  out  if  she  can  put 
me  on  the  track  o'  Miss  Minervy  Granzine.  I've 
somethin'  very  partickler  to  say  to  Miss  Gran- 
zine, and  somethin'  I  hope  she'll  be  very  glad  to 
hear,"  and  by  way  of  emphasis  he  unconsciously 
raised  his  gun  from  the  floor  and  banged  it  down 
again. 

"  Isn't  gwine  to  say  it  wid  yo  gun,  is  yo  ?"  said 
the  woman,  laughing. 

"  No,  not  without  she  wants  me  to  go  shootin'  for 
her,"  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  blue  eyes  that 

made  the  woman  feel  timid, 

308 


The  Finder's  Hunt.  309 

"  Well,  'deed,  sir,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Huldy  ain't 
here.  She  don't  live  here  no  moh." 

"  When  did  she  go  'way  ?"  asked  Clint. 

"  A  week  ago,  sah." 

One  more  hopeful  hypothesis  about  the  baby 
excluded! 

"Don't  you  know  nothin'  yerself  about  Miss 
Granzine  ?"  said  Clint,  with  eyes  like  blue  steel 
probes.  "  I've  got  somethin'  to  do  for  her!" 

"Well,  sah — "  began  the  woman  in  a  tremor. 

"Come  in,  Clint,"  rang  Minerva's  clear  voice 
from  upstairs.  She  had  heard  the  whole  colloquy 
through  the  little  spaces  of  the  cottage,  had  realized 
that  Huldah's  absence  did  not  necessarily  exclude 
the  hypothesis  regarding  the  baby  which  Clint 
had  just  excluded,  knew  that  Clint  would  learn  her 
own  presence  in  some  way,  looked  at  the  clock  and 
saw  that  it  would  be  five  hours  before  Muriel 
was  due,  and  decided  that  it  was  not  worth- 
while to  make  the  negress  fight  a  losing  battle  for 
concealment.  She  came  downstairs  and  gave 
Clint  her  hand,  and  went  into  the  parlor  with  him. 
He  closed  the  door  as  he  went  in,  which  added  to 
her  nervousness. 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  try  to  catch  me  so  soon, 
and  to  shut  me  up  too,"  were  her  first  words. 

"  No  more  did  I,  but  we've  had  to  stop  work  to- 
day too,  so  I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  if  I  could 
do  anything  for  you." 

"Thank  you,  Clint,  but  you  see  I'm  very  well 
taken  care  of." 

"Yes,  you  an'  the  baby." 

Then   he    relapsed    into   a  deliberative  silence. 


310  The  Finders  Hunt. 

His  sympathies  generally  carried  him  so  well  to 
the  right  point,  that  it  was  not  his  way  to  antici- 
pate situations  by  preparation.  After  a  brief  mo- 
ment, he  said,  with  face  and  voice  full  of  kindness: 

"  Minervy,  somethin's  not  right.  I  never  seen 
a  miserabler  face  'n  yourn  when  you  bid  me 
good-bye  yesterday  evenin'.  I  know  it  wasn't  my 
goin'  that  made  you  so  miserable  (though  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  if  it  had  been),  so  it  must 
be  somethin'  else.  Now  I  want  to  know  if  I  can't 
make  it  lighter  for  you  somehow." 

"Why,  Clint,"  she  responded,  "we  all  have  our 
troubles.  Many  women  have  more  of  them  than  I 
have.  I  have  kindness  and  plenty.  There's  no  use 
in  my  wanting  anything  more." 

He  did  not  like  the  way  in  which  she  said: 
"There's  no  use."  He  answered: 

"You've  kindness  and  plenty — and  misery,  Mi- 
nervy!  A  good  many  women  have  all  three  of 
them  things,  and  sometimes  because  they  haven't 
any  brothers  or  fathers  to  help  'em  from  the  misery. 
Now  ain't  there  nothin'  I  could  do  for  you  if  I  was 
your  brother,  Minervy  ?" 

"Why  no,  Clint." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  nothin'  without  you 
want  to,  and  without  I  can  do  you  some  good. 
But  I'd  give  my  life  for  you,  Minervy.  Maybe  I 
would  for  any  woman  in  great  trouble,  or  I'd  take 
any  other  man's  if  he  deserved  it." 

Minerva,  though  an  adept  in  many  dangerous 
things,  was  not  an  adept  in  deceit,  or  even  in  con- 
cealment. Her  nature  habitually  flowed  outward 
— flowed  outward  too  much.  She  answered; 


The  Finder  s  Hunt.  3 1 1 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  believe  you  would,  Clint,  but  I 
don't  need  anybody  to  champion  me." 

"  Be  you  in  love,  Minervy  ?" 

She  lo  >ked  up  at  him  with  some  of  her  old  ban- 
ter. 

"  Oh,  I'm  old  enough  to  have  seen  the  folly  of  all 
that,  Cli-it." 

"  Mighty  sorry  you've  had  to  see  the  folly  of  it !" 
said  Clint  simply. 

"  Oh,  we  all  do  as  we  grow  older,"  Minerva  forced 
herself  to  say. 

"  I  never  did,"  said  Clint,  "  'n1  I'm  a  good  deal 
older'n  you  be.  Sometimes  a  feller  does  the  right 
thing  the  wrong  way  'n'  calls  it  foolishness,  and  so, 
I  suppose,  does  a  gal:  but  it's  the  right  thing  all  the 
same."  After  a  pause  he  continued  slowly  and 
more  slowly  until  he  closed  his  sentence  with  a 
pathetic  intonation  of  appeal :  "  There's  a  power 
o'  things  I  ought  to  be  doin'  to-day,  and  if  I 
can't  do  anythin'  for  you,  I'll  jog  along  'n'  come 
'n'  see  you  again  sometime,  'n'  perhaps  you'll 
let  me  do  somethin'  for  you  then,"  and,  with  dis- 
appointment in  every  motion,  he  reluctantly  rose 
to  go. 

It  was  not  strange  that  often  during  Minerva's 
wakeful  nights  since  this  kind  champion  had  pre- 
sented himself  after  her  mother  left  her,  the  prospect 
of  going  off  to  live  at  arm's  length  from  Muriel,  had 
been  interspersed  with  visions  of  living  less  re- 
motely from  Clint.  She  had  suppressed  these  right 
loyally — with  loyalty  to  Clint;  but  the  exercise  of 
that  loyalty  had  made  her  none  the  less  ready  now 
to  be  affected  by  the  tender  generosity  he  had 


3 1 2  The  Finder's  Hunt. 

shown.  She  did  not  see  how  it  could  really  help 
her  situation ;  but  nevertheless  she  felt  a  rest 
and  tremulous  joy  in  it,  and  was  greatly  moved 
by  the  idea  that  she  was  never  to  feel  it  again. 
This  feeling  was  strong  enough  to  overflow  into 
an  impulse — an  impulse  ridiculous  perhaps,  but 
one  characteristic  of  such  women,  and  one  that 
could  never  have  carried  away  a  woman  who  was 
very  mean. 

"Clint,"  said  she,  "you're  as  good  as  God  him- 
self, and  a  great  deal  better  for  all  I  can  see;  and  it 
makes  me  feel  mean  to  part  with  you  trying  to  de- 
ceive you.  I  know  that  if  you  suspect  any  secret 
of  mine,  you'll  keep  it,  and  you  are  so  true  and 
generous  that  if  it  could  do  any  good,  I'd  trust  you 
with  the  whole  of  it." 

"I  don't  want  it,  Minervy,  if  it  can't  do  you  no 
good."  But  he  had  got  it  now,  all  the  same. 

"  I  know  that,  Clint." 

Clint  sat  down  again,  and  after  some  hesitation 
queried,  "  You  said  you  wasn't  married,  Minervy. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  ?" 

"  That  depends,"  she  answered. 

"  If  any  man  ought  to  marry  you,  by  God  I'll 
make  him  !" 

"  Clint:  marrying  is  for  life.  It  wouldn't  be  well 
to  force  it  in  a  moment  and  have  to  stand  it 
always.  There  are  things  better  than  that." 

"  That's  so,  Minervy.  You  talk  as  if  you'd  been 
doin*  a  devil  of  a  thinkin'." 

"  I  have,  Clint ;  and  besides — " 

"  Besides  what  ?" 

"  Never  mind!" 


The  Finder  s  Hunt.  3 1 3 

There  had  been  a  good  deal  of  sub-conscious 
speculation  going  on  in  Clint's  mind  during  the 
talk.  Minerva  seemed  to  admit  the  fact  which 
he  had  tried  not  to  suspect,  and  her  speaking  of 
"  kindness  and  plenty"  turned  his  thoughts  to  the 
source  of  most  of  the  kindness  and  plenty  in  those 
parts.  He  thought  of  Muriel  with  the  rest  of  his 
family,  and  suddenly  reflected  that  he  had  lost  sight 
of  him  about  the  time  he  had  lost  sight  of  Minerva. 
Then  he  remembered  his  own  mysterious  talk  with 
Calmire,  a  little  before  Mrs.  Granzine's  disappear- 
ance,  and  his  thought  was  scarcely  framed  before  he 
turned  deadly  pale  and  almost  wailed: 

"  But  my  God  !  I  can't  kill  him  f"  Then  his  ex- 
pression changed,  and  he  turned  to  her  and  said  : 
"  God  help  you,  Minervy !"  and  he  passed  his 
hand  over  his  forehead  as  if  trying  to  rub  some- 
thing away. 

Minerva  understood  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
sofa-cushion.  This  was  too  much  for  Clint.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  ground  out  between  his  teeth: 

"But  I  will  kill  him!" 

Minerva  too  sprang  up,  and  stood  before  him 
erect  and  resolute  as  her  mother: 

"  No  you  won't!     He's  not  to  blame!" 

Clint  had  loved  Minerva  before,  in  his  big  pro- 
tecting way,  but  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  respected 
her.  For  the  first  time,  too,  without  realizing  it, 
he  felt  jealous  regarding  her. 

"  You  love  him!" 

"  No  I  don't,  and  I  never  did,  not  as  I  love — " 
And  she  rushed  back  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
sofa-cushions  again. 


3 14  The  Finder's  Hunt. 

Clint's  simple  mind  did  not  change  direction 
quickly.  He  was  under-way  in  the  direction  of 
serving  her,  and  he  had  momentum  enough,  despite 
her  disclaimer,  to  reach  the  next  natural  stage  in 
his  own  course  : 

"  I'll  make  him  marry  you!" 

"  And  make  me  more  miserable  still!  We're  not 
fit  to  live  together.  He  would  be  terrible,  terrible, 
terrible !"  She  sat  up  again.  "  He  wouldn't 
mean  to  be,  but  he  would  be. — Besides — "  and  still 
again,  her  face  went  into  the  cushion. 

And  as  Clint  looked  over  at  her,  despite  what  he 
was  suffering  he  became  conscious,  as  she  lay, 
of  the  rich  and  beautiful  lines  she  made,  of  her 
little  feet  peeping  out  below  her  loose  gown,  and 
of  that  very  atmosphere  which  seemed  to  surround 
her,  that  it  would  take  Courtenay's  purity  or  Cal- 
mire's  philosophy  to  resist. 

"  You  could  make  any  man  love  you!"  said 
Clint. 

"Not  him!  I  haven't  seen  him  for  more  than 
six  months,  though  he  has  everything  done  for 
me,  and  means  to  be  good  to  me  always.  But  I 
know  now  he  could  never  love  me.  Oh,  there  are 
great  deep  places  in  him  that  I  can't  even  see  into, 
much  less  go  into,  and  he  would  hate  me  because 
they  would  be  empty.  No,  I  wouldn't,  if  he 

would.  I'm  afraid  of  him.  Besides — " 

"Then  by  God  I'll  marry  you  myself!" 

Clint's  deliberate  emotions  had  at  last  not  only 
felt  her  power  as  she  lay  there,  and  reinforced  his 
chivalry  ;  but  he  had  come  to  interpret  her  reiter- 
ated "besides." 


The  Finder  s  Hunt.  3 !  5 

"  No  you  won't,  Clint.  You're  too  good  for  me, 
and — and  I  love  you  too  much  to  let  you." 

Clint  went  and  picked  her  up  like  a  child,  and 
sat  and  held  her  in  his  arms. 

"Yes  I  will,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  a  bit  better  'n 
you  be.  Women  get  into  trouble  when  men  don't; 
that's  all  the  difference;  and  your  trouble  has  made 
you  better  'n  ever  I  was,  but  not  better  'n  I'm  goin' 
to  be.  And  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  away  from  all 
this.  My  brother's  got  rich  out  there  'n  Afriky, 
and  I'll  go  out  there  'n'  get  rich  too — get  as  rich 
for  you  as  anybody  is.  Guess  I  can  handle  nig- 
gers! Saw  enough  of  'em  when  I  was  in  the  army. 
Hello!  what's  that  comin'?" 

"  It's  only  the  pony-carriage,"  said  Minerva, 
looking  out  over  his  shoulder.  "  The  boy  brings 
it  for  me  to  drive.  But  he  can  wait,"  and  she 
turned  to  put  her  head  on  Clint's  shoulder  again, 
when  all  the  reasons  against  putting  it  there  rushed 
anew  upon  her,  and  she  cried,  "No,  I'm  not  fit! 
You'll  despise  me  yet,"  and  struggled  to  get  away. 
But  if  the  heavy  oak  chair  had  suddenly  grown 
up  and  held  her,  she  could  have  produced  just  as 
much  impression  upon  it. 

"  Keep  still,  Minervy,"  said  Clint,  "  you  hurt 
my  sore  arm.  Besides,  you  needn't  make  such  a 
fuss,  for  me  to  believe  that  you're  brave  and 
honest.  I  wouldn't  have  picked  you  up  and  set 
you  here  if  you  hadn't  proved  that  you've  come  to 
be  a  bang-up  square  woman — And  my  God,  what 
a  purty  one  you  be!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  held  her 
off  and  looked  into  her  glowing  face.  "That's  all 
there  is  of  it,  'n'  I'm  goin'  to  marry  you:  so  put  your 


3 1 6  The  Finder's  Hunt. 

head  down  an'  keep  still.  May  as  well  kiss  me 
first,  though,"  and  she  did  kiss  him,  and  said : 
"  Oh  Clint,  I'll  love  you  as  good  women  love 
God,"  and  probably  her  misery  had  strengthened 
her  to  do  it.  She  kissed  him  again  and  put  her 
head  down  as  he  had  told  her,  and  quietly  wept 
happy  tears. 

Soon  he  said:  "Now,  Minervy,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'm  goin'  to  do.  You're  not  to  stay  here  another 
day.  I'm  goin'  to  drive  into  town  with  that  boy. 
In  two  hours  I'll  be  back  here  with  Mr.  Courte- 
nay.  In  four  hours,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clint  Russell 
and  the  kid  will  start  for  New  York.  So  you  be 
ready.  I  can  come  back  here  and  straighten 
up  things  next  week." 

And  in  less  than  four  hours,  they  had  left  the 
house  with  all  she  cared  to  take  with  her,  and  drove 
in  a  big  carriage  that  Clint  had  brought,  to  the 
station  beyond  Benstock.  Courtenay  went  back  to 
town  in  the  pony-carriage,  and  blushed  at  recalling 
that  when,  country-fashion,  he  kissed  Minerva,  he 
felt  that  he  had  wanted  to  before. 


CHAPTER   LXIV. 

THE    BEGINNING. 

AN  hour  after  Courtenay  had  left  the  cottage, 
Muriel  reached  it  on  foot  from  Benstock.  The  day 
was  glorious.  It  marked  one  of  the  first  timid 
steps  of  Summer,  wnich  in  those  climes  are  doubly 
beautiful  from  the  contrast  with  the  cold  that 
they  banish.  The  air  was  warm  and  balmy,  the  trees 
were  green,  the  birds  were  singing,  and  here  and 
there  a  daisy  had  already  peeped  out. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  Muriel  had  to  take  a 
step  into  the  hall  to  ring  the  bell  placed,  as  the 
way  is  in  those  parts,  in  the  centre  of  the  door 
between  the  panels.  The  negress  came. 

"Where's  Miss  Huldah  ?" 

"  Done  gone  down  Souf  wid  her  husband  a  week 
ago,  sah." 

"  Her  husband  !     She  isn't  married." 

"  Yessah  !     Married  just  befoh  she  went." 

"  To  Mr.  Redfield  ?" 

"  Yessah,  to  Mars'  Redfield  !" 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it !" 

"  Yessah  !" 

"  Well,  let  me  see  Miss— Mrs.  Granzine." 

"  She  done  gone  wid  her  husband  too,  sah  !" 

"What?" 

"  Yessah.     Wid  a  gemman  as  swears." 

"  Impossible!" 

"Yessah.  If   yo's  young  Mars'  Calmire,  dis 


318  The  Beginning. 

yar  letter's  for  yo,  sah.     Walk  right  in  de  parlor, 
sah,  and  hab  a  seat." 
Muriel  took  the  letter  into  the  little  room  and  read, 

"  Before  you  get  this,  I  shall  be  gone  where  you 
will  never  hear  of  me  again,  with  the  only  man  I  ever 
loved.  I  am  married  to  Clint  Russell.  He  offered 
to  take  the  child,  and  I  don't  doubt  that  he  would 
be  good  and  kind  to  it  always,  but  I  love  Clint  too 
much  to  burden  him,  and  you  can  do  better  for  the 
child  than  we  can,  and  he  has  a  right  to  that. 

"  Good-bye.  I  hope  your  life  will  be  happy.  I 
know  mine  will  be,  and  I  hope  you  are  glad  of  it. 
You  never  wished  any  harm  to  me,  I  know.  And 
I  didn't  to  you.  Good-bye.  M. 

"  P.S. — Clint  says  good-bye  too." 

The  letter  simply  numbed  Muriel.  It  took  him  a 
minute  to  realize  it.  But  there  was  no  mistake 
about  it.  Here  he  was — a  free  man,  with  his  child 
upon  his  hands.  He  sat  some  minutes  more  pon- 
dering and  speculating;  then,  to  do  it  better,  he 
took  a  few  minutes  more  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room.  By  that  time,  having  slept  poorly  the  night 
before  and  having  already,  to  avoid  attention, 
walked  from  Benstock,  he  felt  exhausted  and  sat 
down  again.  Since  reading  the  letter,  he  had  run 
through  the  whole  gamut  of  feeling  from  a  sug- 
gested desire  to  murder  the  child,  (which  sugges- 
tion, he  had  learned  enough  to  laugh  at,)  to  a 
pretty  good  imitation  of  parental  interest  in  it. 
Yet  what  was  to  be  done  with  it  ?  His  duties  to 
it  were  the  same  that  he  had  always  acknowledged, 


The  Beginning.  3 1 9 

and  with  them  before  him,  all  that  he  cared  for 
most,  was  as  far  off  as  ever.  At  last,  he  gave  up 
meditating  from  sheer  incapacity  to  keep  his  tired 
brain  working,  said:  "I  may  as  well  face  my 
music,"  and  went  into  the  hall  and  rang  the  door- 
bell again.  The  negress  appeared. 

"  Where's  the  baby  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Gone  out  wid  de  lady,  sah!" 

"  What  lady  ?" 

"  De  lubly  lady  I'se  sometimes  seed  down  by  de 
'  Home.'  " 

"Dear  old  Mary!"  thought  Muriel.  "She's  al- 
ways on  hand  when  there's  trouble.  Well,  I'd 
rather  have  her  know  about  it  than  anybody  else. 
No  Aunt  Amelia  now!  And  some  woman's  got  to 
help  me."  Then  he  asked  the  negress: 

"How  in  the  world  did  she  get  here?" 

"  She  rid  up  wid  de  nuss  and  tole  de  carriage  to 
come  back  for  her  at  six  o'clock." 

"  But  what  made  her  come  ?" 

"  She  'lowed  dat  Miss  Minervy  tole  her  de  baby 
was  here, and  she  must  send  a  nuss  from  de  '  Home.' 
So  she  com'd  herself  wid  de  nuss  to  look  'round 
arter  tings." 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"Gone  out  wid  de  baby,  sah,  to  gib  it  a  little 
walk,  jus'  as  I  done  tole  ye.  She  be  back  soon." 

"Thank  you!  I'll  wait."  And  he  sat  down  exhaust- 
ed, on  the  platform  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The 
woman  went  to  the  back  of  the  house.  He  leaned 
his  overburdened  head  against  the  newel-post, 
thought  how  beautiful  the  coming  Summer  ap- 
peared through  the  open  door,  and  in  a  minute  was 
asleep. 


320  The  Beginning. 

After  a  little  time  of  oblivion,  he  awoke  con- 
fused and  as  if  dreaming.  Before  him,  backed 
by  the  sunlight  of  the  doorway,  stood  a  figure 
in  white,  with  radiant  hair  ;  on  its  arm,  a  child. 
It  all  seemed  very  natural,  as  Muriel's  eyes  opened 
upon  it,  and  with  a  feeling  of  reverent  admiration, 
he  raised  them,  partly  dazzled  by  his  sleep  and  the 
glory  of  the  Summer  air,  and  dwelt  upon  the  face. 

When  he  could  think  for  a  moment,  and  realize 
who  it  was,  and  what  she  had  done,  he  gave  a  low 
cry  that  was  half  a  groan,  and  unconsciously  sank 
forward  from  the  steps  to  his  knees,  looking  up  to 
her  as  men  look  from  thirsting  death  to  the  nearing 
palms.  Then  he  put  his  arms  around  her  robes 
and  buried  his  face. 

"  Not  there,  Muriel !"  she  said,  passing  her  free 
hand  tenderly  over  his  head,  while,  for  a  little,  to 
them  Time  stopped. 

At  last  he  moved  and  took  the  caressing  hand  in 
both  of  his,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  mur- 
mured : 

"  If  I  were  but  worthy!     If  I  were  but  worthy!" 

She  answered  :  "You  have  expiated,  my  Love, 
you  have  expiated.  Come  !" 

And  when  she  raised  him,  while  one  arm  held  his 
child,  she  put  the  other  around  his  neck  and  kissed 
him.  For  a  moment,  he  held  both  woman  and 
child  in  his  embrace.  Then  Nina  called  the  nurse 
and  gave  her  the  boy,  and  went  out  into  the  sun- 
light with  Muriel. 

THE    EN IX 


133     2 


,   --  8H9 
• 


' 

•• .;    m 


i 

^^•- 


